The Call
by Troublesome-monkey-dono
Summary: Following Mickey Milkovich and all his numerous brushes with Death.
1. Year One

Note: Hello, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing in.

So, this is my first Shameless fanfic. I have always been a fan of this show, but I never thought I would ever make a fanfic out of it. I apologize if the characters may seem far from their show personalities. I technically haven't touched anything Shameless since season five. However, I couldn't sleep because this idea kept popping up in my head and I just had to write it all down. Read, Review and Enjoy.

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Disclaimer : I am a poor college student who barely owns a workable laptop. I do not own this show or any of it's affiliated characters.

Summary: Following Mickey Milkovich and all his numerous brushes with Death.

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Chapter One: Year One

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In all of his millennium of existence, he has never quite met anything like the walking conundrum that is Mikhailo "Mickey" Aleksandr Milkovich. He is a curious boy – man – who has brushed the frayed edges of death far too many times for it to be considered remotely 'normal' considering his youthful age. He considers seriously labeling the walking death magnet suicidal for a long moment before rejecting the label simply because the definition didn't even begin to describe Mickey. Mickey didn't actively look for reasons to end his life. He didn't actively choose to call upon the depth of the beyond for him to rush forward when he feels Mickey's string of life tighten taut as though it could snap at any moment. He certainly wasn't actively yearning to end his own life at all. Yet he calls for him many many many times.

Mickey's call is unique, as are all the calls of souls he reaps. A boy – excuse him, a man – as brash as he would often have such a brass sounding call, something explosive and expressive. Yet, Mickey's is a silent sigh, a word in fact, that is whispered and garbled so gently he sometimes doesn't hear it through the void of signals he picks through. He's developed a sense for it now, sharpening his senses, attuned to this particular boy's call. He always beckons, always calls. It is exhausting sometimes, how often he calls. He calls too much.

But he is Death, personified – at least figuratively. He's not quite sure what he is really. He is an ancient thing, he knows, but he has given up all sense of figuring out what he is. He lets the souls paint his face, paint his personality, paint him to a figure they can recognize. He doesn't particularly mind what they think of him. In the end, he has one job. He answers their calls.

* * *

He meets Mickey very early into his youth. Far too early, he surmises with a tsk. Far far far too early when Mickey is a growing thing still figuring out how to grow enough cells so he may escape at the acceptable rate and time. When he hears his call, he's almost bemused by it. It is neither loud nor soft, but a chime so fast he almost doubts himself for a moment. Did I really hear that? But his gut tells him to go, to answer this call. Let's go see our particular caller.

So he goes, jumping through the void only to land in a dreary, drab, dirty place. He almost purses his lip for a moment. This is not a nice place. The room is dark, windows covered in a dingy curtain that looked like it was salvaged from the garbage. The room smelled of alcohol, piss and a body odor so fierce he would have turned away had there not been a call at stake. He prefers visiting okay places – sterilized rooms, homely walls, and such. But he can't afford to be picky. At least not when the hears the whispered garble much louder now, hissing from the next room.

He is greeted with a not so pretty sight. He spots a lithe thing, curled in the floor silently weeping. She's very little, skin clinging into bones so tightly he can almost call her emaciated. She shuffles for a moment, skinny shaking arms pressing defiantly against the ground as she wills herself upward. Except, she lacks the strength and practically falls back down in a pitiful heap. She tries again, only for a moment before admitting defeat and letting out a low sob in response.

"Oh my dear," he croons as he stands close, "what happened to you?" He doesn't expect her to reply. They never reply. It's not like they could really see or hear him, right?

Still, she sniffles in reply and finally lifts her face away from her shaking pale arms for him to examine her face. She's beautiful. Tragically beautiful. And so very, very young. He spies sunken crystal blue eyes, shining with prickling tears. He spots strong, prominent cheek bones, a fine nose and beautifully plump lips. And he spies bruises and blood peppering her face, marring her beauty. So, it's this kind of call isn't it?

With a sigh, he strides forward to examine her, noting that she was almost naked, dressed in a destroyed tank top and shredded shorts that looks as if it were hanging on threads around her curled form. Her neck and shoulders is a piece of work – reddish and swollen, turning a impressive purple and blue. He's not as keen on mapping other injuries that she may sport. He's seen this case before. Far too much really. It's never pretty. It's never easy. And she made a call.

"...Iggy," she calls startling him out of his momentary stupor. Her voice is strained, over used and gritty. He watches her swallow dry for a moment, wincing as she struggled from her position before bellowing out a louder yell. "Iggy!" Iggy? What a curious thing to yell at the cusps of her finality.

Curiously, he leans forward just to watch the events unfold. For a woman to let out a call, she certainly doesn't seem like she needed him at the moment. The sharp gleam of her eyes hardened into stony sapphire as she struggles with her strength to sit up. There is determination in her face, with her jaw tight and eyes narrowed as she denied herself the right to let out more tears. He spots weakness in her body frame as she shuffles about, but there is a stark hard pressed determination in her that he hadn't seen in a long time. She certainly doesn't look like she's dying.

Yet the call is getting strong and steadier still.

"Iggy please come help me!" she finally yells out in frustration, voice whining and breaking all the while. Oh, Iggy is a name. Iggy is a person.

The boy reveals himself just in time to save him from another bout of curious pondering. He falls out from a wooden wardrobe perched near the corner of the room. He's a mangy thing, all skinny and covered in bruises, bandages and scabs. Not quite bad, considering his age, had it not been for their placement. He pushes his ratty straw colored hair out of his face and he spies a wonderful set of hazel eyes, all wide and miserable as he scuttles across the room in a rush. His lower lip trembled for a moment – just a little moment – before scrawny arms curled around the woman in the floor in a panic.

"Mama?!"

Great. Wonderful. Really. He sighs dramatically. He doesn't enjoy watching the pre-event antics when he answers the call. They're never something warm or the least bit touching. It's a lot of unnecessary yelling, and tears, and sorrow. He certainly doesn't enjoy throwing young children into the mix either. But he has a job, a call to answer. So, languidly he glides close with his hand stretched out. It takes a motion. A movement. A snip snip.

"Mama you're bleeding!" Iggy whines as he pulls his mother up right, "You're sitting in your blood!" And she is. She's decorated in bright red blossoming through her shorts and running down her legs steadily as she finally shifts herself into a upward position. She winces for a moment, one pale hand curling hard against herself as she sways. With wide eyes, he traces the soft contour of her stomach, assessing the situation.

Oh...oh. Oh.

"Is the...a-are ya gonna lose the baby?!" comes the child's furious hiss after a long second. He's blindly pressing his own grubby hands against he contour of his mother's stomach, feeling for something that probably isn't even there anymore.

But the child is there. And he calls loudly now, loud and pronounced against the whine of his family's own sharp cries. He calls and calls enough for him to frown heavily. He's lived a millennium and half and he never once liked reaping babies. They're innocent little things, full of potential and so much life that he's delighted when he's in the vicinity of one. But when he reaps them, oh no. He doesn't like reaping them. Their chain of life is so short, so pathetically small and underdeveloped that it was just cruel to even snip. It's still cruel to even consider it, so he shifts in his spot for a moment. A moment of hesitation.

"We're not losing him. We're not," comes his mother's steady voice, shaking her head all the while. "We're not. Iggy, I need you to call for help okay? Okay? Can you do that for Mama?"

"Mama the baby -"

"Iggy! Please call for - "

And he shakes his head. Enough, enough of this. Time to assess. Time to check. Time to move. There are other calls he hears, millions and more.

* * *

As it turns out, the call is snuffed before he can truly make his move. It's understandable. There are always false calls. And he's fine with it. He would rather stand in vigil than act rapidly. It happens sometimes. At least it happens more and more as the centuries pass. He likes to think that humanities' advancement in medicine and science had made a substantial crack down on his hectic schedules. It's delightful really, because he finds time to work on his other interests. He's been working on some macrame.

He doesn't think any more of that tiny baby should-be-but-has-not-been until he calls three months after. And he happens to call in a hectic day when he's at his wits end dealing with a major train wreckage a continent away in Europe. Just as before, his call is quick like a wisp of smoke. He barely hears it in the mindless drone of the soulful horde. Except, he does and he can't help but be less than pleased.

So he apparates again, this time in a not-so-shitty hospital setting (because he's seen even worse places to birth a child) and wonders what the hell he's doing there. It's not the drone of the surgical ward (that place is a beacon, he swears) that he is called to but the Obstetric ward. Oh wonderful. He gets to partake in the miracle of life that is spattered with amniotic fluid, lochia, and an odd stench so strong it seeps into his very being. At least he doesn't miss the irony of having a front seat to the start of life when he can easily take it away. Har, har, har. Oh yes, so funny.

He keens his head for a moment and hears the whistle of the call come from the other room. Stalking about, he passes through a huddle of interns as they watch their head doctor finger a poor, fidgeting woman's feminine area as the measure her dilation. Ah yes, medical stuff. Crinkling his nose, he looks away for the mere embarrassment that shot through him was enough to give him whiplash.

He finds the problem in the next bed over. Bed is hardly the name he would call the damaged thing, but in it lays the damaged woman he's met from before. The mother. She's sprinkled in sweat, swallowed by a large hospital gown as she massages her stomach. Her face is screwed with pain as she fidgets about, passing through a rough contraction as nobly and classy as any woman could. Except he knows she's far too young and a child herself, so..well. He wasn't sure her little hips and lithe frame could handle spewing out another spawn. Idly, he wonders why she is alone. Shouldn't she be surrounded by family and what not when she goes through labor? Apparently not.

She's not dying this time, he knows because she grips the handles of the bed rail so hard he was sure it would crack under grip. She's still strong, this one. But the call, the buzzing call is getting louder and louder. He stares at the balloon she chooses to hide under her frame and wonders why the hell the child is so adamant to keep calling. It's not alarming enough for him to actually snip, no, but enough for him to raise some concerns. He's almost tempted to tap against the woman's stomach just to ask how badly the child wanted to stay in there. He's called twice to cancel his own life now.

Except he actually doesn't understand what could be the reason for his call. He likes to understand why he was called. Lives are precious precious things and there is always a reason to be called forth. So, against his better judgment, he stays and waits it out. Maybe it's a false positive again.

The medical jargon that is thrown his way whacks him in the back of the head until he's left confused and staring forlornly in a corner. Something about Low Fetal Heart Beat? Something about Inducing Labor? Something about being Premature? He knows enough to understand that this isn't a normal birth. He half wonders if they were going to pull the child out from the stomach like he's seen before. It's a new thing in this century, one that horrified him until he's seen enough of it for him to be the least bit intrigued by how it all worked. Except they don't do that, because well, how much is the cost of Cesarean Sections? Too fucking much.

So the poor woman child, her name is Aleksandra or Sandy he learns, has an induced labor. A forced labor. A very very painful labor. He resolves to stay with her then because it's hardly fair to leave her. She is alone, bearing through it all. Perhaps she doesn't see his presence, but it helps his conscience to know he didn't leave a birthing woman alone to go through some personal hell. He half jumps from his spot in the corner when he watches the head deliverer - middle aged sour looking doughy woman - decked in scrubs stalking in, assess the damage and shake her head before calling for a needle. It's quick work, her hand disappearing in said feminine parts unknown before withdrawing quickly. It's followed by a large gush of amniotic fluid and Aleksandra practically shouts out in pain. With her amniotic sac forcibly broken, she feels the full brunt of everything spike within her and it leaves her heaving and breathless on the delivery table.

As the hour passes, it gets even worse. He's not one to give props or an ounce of respect so easily but he can easily hand out his respects for this woman. Pushing and Bearing Down should be an Olympic sport because it looks thoroughly tiring and painful. He's almost curled within himself a couple of times when the screaming starts. It's howling and moaning combined all in one. It's guttural and almost inhuman at times. It is pain, true actual pain. He hasn't heard screams like those since the Witch Burnings back in the hey days. He can't even hear the buzzing call get louder and louder in his ear as a result.

When the child is close to crowning, he practically faints because he didn't think it could get any worse. But it does, oh it does, when he spies the deliverer – some sort of human she-devil he was sure – grabs a pair of scissors from the sterile tray and cuts through one corner of Sandy's vaginal area. Clinically, he knows it's an episiotomy site to prevent the labia from tearing when the head of the child passes. That knowledge doesn't make it any less pleasingly uncomfortable to look at. Because, well...hell no.

When the child's head passes through, he thinks the worst has passed. Except he's almost always wrong nowadays and the doctor yells out, "Cord loop!" She quickly moves and he shoots up from his position to edge further and look. Through the squeamish goo of body fluids oozing from orifices, quick fingers cradling the child's crowning head as they maneuvered it, he notices things are really not okay. The umbilical cord is firmly wrapped around the child's neck like a noose and he realizes belatedly that the child is practically a sickening shade of blue. Oh, no, no, no.

He lets out a small whimper in the back of his throat in response as doctor's adept fingers try to unravel the noose from the baby's neck. That calling whisper is shrieking in his ear now. He only hears it now. Tap it. Snip it. Snip Snip. Oh, but he doesn't want to. He really, really doesn't want to. Babies are suppose to be full of life. Full of wonder. Covered in disgusting goo and making their imminent displeasure to be forcibly ejected be known. They're not suppose to be... this. Well, except, he knows that some babies aren't always so lucky. He's had his fair share of reaping babies too. Not everyone is so lucky.

Still, he hesitates.

At least enough for the emergency staff to fly about, doing quick work to detach the blue baby boy – oh he's a boy – from the umbilical cord and whisking him away into the Neonatal Unit for Immediate Resuscitation. He follows keenly, a shadow forlornly trailing behind to watch. He's small, so very small and so very limp. As he watches the neonatal nurse grab an infant sized laryngoscope (at least he thinks that's what it was), he bows his head in silent prayer. He gives one to every soul he reaps, to ease them and guide them to him.

It's alright. He will take care of him now, the poor little bugger.

Raising his head, he swallows a deep breath and steps forward hands aloft. This time, he is stopped by a whine, like a dying kitten. A sullen shriek becomes a breathy whisper; one word.

* * *

Again, against his better judgment, he stays even longer to watch the child. He's in a glass tomb in the NICU, covered in tubes and foreign objects that just look unnatural on such a small thing. He can't help but press himself closer to watch the child, counting the little chest raise up and down rapidly like he can barely watch his breath. He's so very little, so much so he could probably just cradle him with one of his one large hands. He's very wrinkly, dry, reddish and doesn't move that often. He's often tempted to poke at him to garner a response.

He has a label on his little left foot - Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich, 26 weeks old, 1.2 lbs. He gains Death's pity very quickly.

At least he is loved, he reasons. His mother is devoted, often pressed against his glass tomb like a life line. He has an older brother, Iggy the little bruised school boy, who tries his damn hardest to skip school and watch his new baby brother. At least he's loved.

Still, he hears the buzzing whine of his call in his ear. It isn't shrieking, not demanding but still calling. He opts to ignore it for now and turns away. There are other pressing calls to see.

* * *

He hears his call eight months later. He's really not amused. He's heard it's whispery sigh enough for him to roll his eyes because truly, he considers the boy to be blessed with miracles at this point. He's escaped deaths clutches two times and he is not even had a birthday. Blessed this Milkovich child, he is. Still he appears because he's called and a little bit curious on what the bugger looks like now that he's grown a bit.

He appears once more to that dingy little smelly house and he distastefully hisses when he almost lands in a puddle of something. This isn't a place for children he is sure, certainly not a suitable place for a child on the cusps of starting to walk. But he has no place to judge the state of a current affairs. He only has one job. So he follows the call to the hallway where he finds a particularly disturbing sight.

Mikhailo is choking. Legitimately choking. He's sitting in a dirty sky blue blanket covering the wooden floors, hacking his little lungs out. It's instinct the way he stutters forward, arms open as if he was meant to scoop the child out and fish the damn thing choking his throat out by himself. Except he can't, as his form flies right through and he's left a crumbled pathetic heap on the floor as a result. Right, right. Shit.

Turning in a panic, he watches as the child hacks once more, red faced and covered in pathetic tears as he lets out little choking sounds. For a moment he hears the call gain momentum in his hear. Tap. Tap. Snip Snip. He is almost glad to hear the sound of wheezing for a moment after because at least he knows, it's a partial blockage. One that looks like he can't get out without help. Help. Where the fuck was the help?

He's almost tempted to turn around in panicked circles like a cartoon character because he expects someone, anyone to be watching this child. That someone is there to make sure babies like him don't get do something ridiculous to off themselves. "Where the fuck is your mother?!" he shouts in frustration.

And like saving grace, Iggy appears, climbing the stairs two at a time holding a bottle in one hand. He throws the bottle to the ground and jumps at the child once he sees the commotion. "Mickey?!" he shouts before grabs hold of the choking infant and practically karate chops him in the back between the shoulder blades. "What the fuck man! What the fuck did you put in your mouth?!" he shouts.

And Death is left there staring. Wrong. The whole thing is wrong. But, apparently by the grace of a divine being, it works as Mickey makes a hurling sound and spits out a small lego to the floor. Afterwards, he's an inconsolable mess, his throat and upper palate shredded by the pointy toy. But he's screaming, nice and loud like his lungs were actually working well this time. For a moment, he's glad.

Iggy is shouting along with him, shushing the boy rather harshly looking as if he wanted nothing more than to shake him. Still, he hold the boy tight against his skinny form, cradling him close and swaying as best he can. Mickey quiets for a moment with a small whine, pudgy little hands grabbing hold of Iggy's greasy straw hair as he cries. He's cute, actually. He's gained weight, though he still looks impossibly small. He's pale, red faced, with soft tufts of thick black hair covering his tiny little head. He think his eyes are magnificent – all wide, blue and impossibly full of wonder and mischievousness. What a beautiful child.

A beautiful child alone without his mother. He takes a moment to look around, noting carefully that no one seemed to be in the house except the two children. Hm. It doesn't sit well with him but he retreats, already being called to another urgent chime.

* * *

The next time he visit, he isn't actually called. He's curious is all, because it's been a whole entire year since his traumatizing birth and he hasn't heard a peep from the bugger aside from the Lego choking incident a few months prior. Personally, he calls that a personal win. The child is growing up and developing without the constant aura of death looming over him. Hurrah for the personal win.

So he visits on his birthday, partially because he's sentimental and partially because he wants to take a look at the beautiful child's blue blue eyes again. He's a bit ashamed but he supposes he's been playing some favorites. He thinks back on his involvement in this child's life back at from this point and readily admits he's been compromised. And he had nothing to defend himself with except for the stark truth that he found himself carelessly caring for the little mongrel because he was pitiful and beautiful all at the same time. How he manages that, he's not sure. But he likes to watch him, because he really does manage it well.

When he arrives to see him, he's not met with a happy birthday party as he hoped. He's met with darkness, shouting and a sweaty beast of a human rioting in the living room. Terry Milkovich – the supposed father and head of the family – is parading about the kitchen in a drunken stampede. He's yelling insanity at the television which was currently airing the Ellen Show. He liked that woman. She was insanely witty and quick on her feet.

He finds himself not liking Terry Milkovich very well. He presents himself to be a beastly, homophobic prick sporting an overly inflated ego, a high amount of ignorance and just about the humanity of a rock. How he exists in the modern world is beyond even the trained sage of his eyes. He's met and reaped plenty of souls like him before. They're bitter, a dark void of energy he often has to smack around in order to guide through the abyss. He calls them distractors. They disrupt the flow of souls to guide. They're impulsively, chronically unhappy and often fight him. They distract him from his work. They're pests.

And certainly, he is sure this cranky case needed to be caged when it was time to reap him. He certainly hoped it would be sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, he becomes the unwilling witness of his terror first hand. He flounces about the house, trying to locate the miracle baby child with beautiful eyes when Mickey himself comes toddling along in the kitchen while his mother fixes food. He's almost amazed at the progress he's shown.

"Well look at you, you little thing you," he coos despite himself. He leans against the kitchen door in awe, just watching the child roam about on unsteady little pudgy legs. And then for one brief precious moment, Mickey directs his beautiful blue eyes right at him, staring at him for a second before letting out a wet laugh. He then throws his arms up in glee, little legs kicking an unsteady rhythm of steps to come closer to him as he smiles.

"Uwah!" he yips from the floor and he cannot help but melt at the sight. Look at that, that adorable sign of life. This is the reason why he truly adored babies. Babies, while not particularly gifted with speech or motor control, had an uncanny ability to see him at times. He had wished – dreamed – that he could interact with the little bugger and now here he was. Smiling gently, he kneels to his level and lets out a sigh. They can see him, he can't touch them. Oh what fun they'll have together.

He wonders for a moment what form Mickey might see him as. It is depended truly on each soul what their perception of him would be. Often it's grotesque – something deathly, obsessively gore filled that it causes heart palpitations. However, for children it's a whole new different ball game. Children have over active imaginations. He might as well be some rainbow goat singing the alphabet to a child like Mickey.

He is effectively cut from his bemused ponderings by a brash, loud drunk Terry who stampedes into the kitchen for another beer. Brush through him like a wisp of smoke, he feels Terry's dark energy enough for him to leave a bad taste in his mouth. In return, Terry shivers as though a cold draft had set in. That doesn't derail his stampede at the slightest and he bulldozes against Mickey until the child stumbles and falls back at the contact. Terry awards him with a mean look, as though he found gum stuck under his shoe. Grumbling, he merely side steps the baby and grabs the door of the refrigerator and rummages in.

Tsking to himself, awarding said man with a large stink eye of his own, he can't help but glance back at the flailing baby on the floor. Mickey seems undeterred by the incident as a whole, picking himself up into a crawling position and hauling himself to stand. All without help. The little devil. What a progressive child. For a moment, he holds his arms aloft as though he is meant to help the child steady his balance before realizing the futility of the action. Like he could actually catch him given his true form.

All the while, Mickey toddles on milling about as though he's trying his damn hardest to perfect the art of walking. He waddles to his mother, pulling on the leg of her pants for attention and babbles. It's cute and kodak worthy enough for him to coo at him from his corner again. Sandy rewards him with a wet kiss before turning back to the stove to turn off the whistling kettle. She turns slowly and gives Terry a small, careful smile as he settles into the kitchen table.

"Do you want some coffee?"

Terry, perpetually angry at the world, merely grunts into his beer. Shrugging, Sandy places a chipped white mug on the table in front of him and pours boiling water before retrieving some instant coffee from the cupboard. She does it all with such efficient, quick grace that he's almost impressed. He certainly never looked so graceful using his French Press. The few minutes of serenity that follows is almost nice. Terry tucks into his coffee and a newspaper, effectively turning off his rambling yap enough for him to truly concentrate on Mickey.

Mickey, adventurous and perfectionist little Mickey, is still at it as he takes one precarious step after another. He loses balance a couple of times and lands on his diapered little butt, but it hardly stops him from trying again. He's easily amused by things, he finds. Mickey simply looks around, examining this and that so easily he doesn't even need toys to play with. It's nice, he supposes, to have a non-fussy baby.

The relative peace is broken by Mickey himself. It's an accident really. He toddles far too close to Terry, enough that he finds himself standing from his safe corner to urge him away. As he does, the child stumbles to the side as his struggles to keep his footing. One pudgy hand reaches for something, anything, to right himself. Unfortunately, it's Terry's pant leg. The prick jumps at the contact as though he was burned, one hand jumping to push himself away and the other – one with a handful of hot hot coffee – sloshing forward.

"No!" he hisses where he stood, watching in utter dismay as the steaming liquid pours itself down Mickey's back. The child in question yelps and cries, red shirt steaming behind him as he falls to the floor. He is awarded by a swift kick, Terry hauling himself completely upward and kicking the child away hard enough for his little body to roll away like a sack of potatoes.

Terry lets out another garbled angry shout before throwing the coffee mug to the floor in frustration, yelling obscenities at his wake. Sandy launches herself on her wailing offspring, pulling the child further away and furiously trying to remove his scalding clothes through bleared, tear filled eyes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Sandy yells between all the commotion.

And he, he stands in the corner watching the scene unfold feeling rightfully furious, protective and hysterical. All the while, he begins to hear that low whispering call emanate from the little body crumpled in the floor. He's really beginning to hate that sound.

That day, Death learns that he can hold deep deep grudges. That he holds it in himself to promise that he shall reap Terry's soul with vengeance that no amount of divine intervention could ever sanctify him a pardon. It is that day Sandy learns how inhumane her spouse is. And it is that day, Mickey receives his first scar. It is a scalding, dark brown wrinkly scar covering the expense of his back to remind him how painful third degree burns can be. Happy Birthday Indeed.

* * *

Note: Okay, I'ma stop there because I wrote this all in one go and I eyes hurt. I hope you enjoyed as I continue to fill each year with mishaps. Please don't misunderstand, this is definitely a Gallavich Fanfiction. Just later in the game because I needed to fill in gaps. Also, no, I'm not here to kill Mickey either. He's too much of a favorite of mine to kill so willy nilly.

Uhm please excuse my writing errors, grammar or tendency to skip words in sentences. I suck at proofreading.

Anyway, thank you for reading. Please review. I'd love to hear you're feedback. Troublesome-monkey-dono signing out.


	2. Year One and a Half

Note: Uh, hello readers. Troublesome-monkey-dono signing in.

Yeah, I don't know what I'm writing. I have the basic plot in my head, but surely, the details are made up as a I go along. Certainly seems that way doesn't it? Anyway, thank you very much for continuing to read, for the comments given and the kudos received. At least I know I made something that doesn't remotely seem as moot as I thought it was. Anyway, read forth and enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 2: Year One and a Half

* * *

Death doesn't really like many people. Is that callous to say? He's Death, after all. Perhaps it would seem more obvious than anything. But, it is true. He's not as amicable as the other entities that exist in this spectrum. He does his job efficiently, quickly and most importantly – professionally. Professionally means conducting himself to a set of 'Rules' or 'Guidelines" placed in order to ensure he remain as clinical, composed and respectfully but calmly remorseful when he reaps souls. It's a delicate thing, guiding souls – ones often wrecked full of penitent what ifs and if onlys – to the next beyond. It gets even messier if he places his own self in the fold, considering what he feels about one such thing. The other entities, ones who understand at least, say he can empathize all he wants with them as long as he does his job.

That's the thing though. Death himself finds he cannot empathize as much as he pities them. Empathy means stepping into their shoes, understand their feelings. But here's the thing, how do you empathize with something – excuse him, someone – that dies when he physically cannot die? He exists, millennia in fact, not without a body of his own. How do you empathize with a soul who wants to stay in their rotting, cold dead core when he doesn't have a physical fleshy body to even understand that? So yeah. He cannot empathize because he is Death. He half thinks the others are stupid for even suggesting that to him. But he keeps that to himself because he is hardly in the mood to entertain their foolish whining afterwards.

So he pities people. Some people. Few people actually because they are worth pitying. He supposes they are special enough in his book to pity. They're in a special, reserved list in his head. It's not a list people really aim to be in. Age doesn't matter in the slightest when it comes to being pitiful. But typically, they're older and so trodden and pulled apart by life that they're a destroyed, pathetic slump of existence in a blimp of reality hardly worth a second glance. Oh, but he notices them. He does. He notices them because they always call for him the loudest.

He supposes the only way to explain calls is like having a horde of whiny children engulf you – you being the sad, tired attention giving mother – as they desperately whine and wrestle for your attention. The desperate gets even more desperate still.

They always end the same.

The call becomes to incessantly loud in his ear, an angry buzz until he is forced to return to their side. And it becomes a silent waiting game. He wants to relent, to back away and let them on their merry little way for more time as he throws himself back in the throng of collecting and guiding. But, well, they're rather delicious when they want to be. And he doesn't mean that in any sexual way - excuse your dirty little mind for thinking it – but he means they become a long whining thing that practically releases their soul from their vessel in utter recklessness. _Take me, come on. Seriously, take me._

In the end, he always relents because it's his job. He never likes to snuff them out and cross them from his list. He always thinks (hopes, believes, silently pleads) that they could somehow be removed from his pity list another way. That somehow, by the grace of the divine, they pick themselves up from the ashes of pity to reinvent themselves like a rising phoenix. It only happens once, in his whole entire millennia of existence, it only happens once.

But the Euphoria, that utter feeling of satisfaction he feels when it does happen is everything to him. And he thinks, perhaps it can happen again.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

* * *

He silently adds Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich into that sad, small, special list on a dreary Tuesday morning. He is more than peeved at the development because he's too young. The youngest he has ever placed in this list was an eight year old in the slums of Asia, traded into a life of child slavery and prostitution. Mickey beats that special little girl – bless her small soul, where ever she may be now – by six years at the ripe, youthful age of two.

Mickey at one and a half is a delightful little bugger of energy and curiosity. He is still small; he will probably always be small. Yet, he perfects the art of toddling about with his pale pudgy little legs. He's gained every bit of baby fat he could, looking more and more like a wholesome baby than he's seen. He is sporting most of his teeth, a very proud addition to his gummy complexion that allows him to munch on true solid food. His hair is a mop on his head, straight and whisped about, as dark as midnight and shines a lovely midnight blue under the sun. He sports a nice army of freckles against his nose, chubby cheeks and down his shoulders and arms, making look adorably cherubic. But it is his eyes, the same crystal blue hue that he loves the most. They're expressive, turning into volatile shades that match his chaotic mood.

Had Mickey actually been in a normal family – the word normal taken in a general sense because he's found no family can be utterly 'normal' to actually fit the word – he would have thrived. Would, being the special that word that makes his gut twist at the wasted potential he sees so clearly in the budding child.

But Mickey does not have it, not matter how much he wishes.

As it turns out Mickey is the lucky little boy saddled with a dirty, dirty little secret shit of a family whose general existence seems to border in the lines of illegal, incestual, and fundamentally disturbed. Terry, the drunk fucker and head of the house, is a being most feared in the Milkovich household. Hell, most of south side. He is feared for two very detrimental things. He aims to hurt, to inflict pain without an ounce of remorse. He uses his fists before using his head, uses his poison laced mouth before using a gun and aims with such executed perfection you would be impressed if it wasn't so horrifying. But, stupidly enough, he is a family man. The fucked up version that is.

"Milkoviches fucking take care of family, ya fuckers hear me?" he would lecture to his brood, swinging his booze bottle about like a drunken pirate in Tortuga gallivanting a crowd about that one time he stabbed a man. Of course, taking care of family means many things that shouldn't. It means keeping the business – everything in the world illegal – in the family. It means burying that said poor fucker until they're untraceable and destroying evidence so family won't be implicated. It also means forcing himself into bed with helpless women (sometimes his wife and sometimes his niece) to quench his sexual hunger. All in all, he's a sick fuck and he finds himself seething in a corner more than once wishing to the world and all above that the bastard finally calls him to he could reap the soul from his body – not gently but with a crushing force because he deserves only that. But he never does and it always enrages him further. He's like a damn cockroach, except he truly believes they're much cleaner than Terry ever would be.

Oh, but Terry Milkovich is unusually cruel. He's not sure if it's due to some repressed trauma of his own, buried somewhere in the midst of his unconscious, or simply that fact that the man was a walking psychopath. But he was cruel. When the man would trudge back into the house – the Milkovich House of Horrors as the neighborhood dubs it – it was like watching everything calm into a tense still. Everything, he was sure, everything somehow stood still to just watch the man with baited breath. They weren't sure what was going to happen, who was going to get hurt, and which unfortunate soul would be the one to cross his path.

Terry seems to enjoy maiming his children. He has two older children, he learns. Where the fuck they came from, he wasn't sure, but the two unfortunate boys were rather unlucky. They took the brunt of his misgivings. The oldest, Joseph or Joey as he vehemently dubs himself, was like the walking hand maid to Terry's agenda. He was the one that made sure the guns were cleaned, loaded and ready to point. He was the one that rolled Terry's Joint. He was the one that carried a spare cosh in the back of his pants for Terry to use when they went on their runs. And unfortunately, he was also the one that was forced to help cut and dispose the remains of Terry's victims because he was the oldest and he has the most upper body strength. But, he was just nine years old and he was sure the child was going to grow up to be an infamous Chicago Serial Killer with a moniker like – Joey the Defiled or something.

Colin, he had no nickname to speak of except Terry calls him retard far too much, was the softer of the two. While Joey was equipped with a loud, brash potty mouth and swinging fists, Colin was the walking teddy bear. He watched far too many times as Terry would deliver an afternoon beating when Colin revealed his mere gentle nature by simply speaking. It infuriated Terry enough to land the boy in the hospital more than a few times for broken bones and internal bleeding. And they had excuse because of course they do. He fell in the monkey bars. He fell down the stairs too. He's so clumsy; so very clumsy and so very dumb. Don't listen to him, he's just special. Low IQ, that one. Of course, we will take good care of him.

Terry was always a good fucking liar.

At least enough to convince six year old Ignatius – excuse him, Iggy, because Ignatius was apparently a stupid name – that he was the favorite. In a way, he sort of was. Iggy was young enough, smart enough, and certainly emaciated and poor looking enough to be used in some sort of scam to pull the hearts of weak-willed, rich North side twats thinking they've donated to a charitable cause. Oh look at him, with his skeleton frame and grubby looking hair. Oh look at him, with those trembling, dry, chapped lips and brilliant hazel eyes shining with tears. Oh look at him, honey, we should give him some money. He pulled off that look rather well, given that it was all real. Terry makes enough money off of the child to mostly leave him alone, awarding him with a slap in the back of the head and a dollar for his troubles. What a fine day of work it was.

At least Iggy was smart enough to save that dollar for a rainy day in a small hole in the wall in his bedroom, covered by the bulk of his bed frame. He saved over one hundred and seventy six dollars for his year of troubles. Most of the time, he spent his time running away from school – mostly because they've been eyeing his bruises with the intent of calling Child Protective Services – or babysitting his baby brother. Mickey was a good kid, at least to Iggy. He didn't cry that much, he mostly played by himself, and more importantly he was a very smiley baby. Iggy really enjoyed his smile.

But, goodness, Terry despised his youngest spawn with a passion even he couldn't describe. He hated the child. He hated being in the same room as him. He yelled, screamed, and cussed every time he saw him. And even more so, he always aimed to wipe the smile off Mickey's face. Most times it was a quick smack away, like he was swatting a fly. It was enough for Mickey to begin to cry before being whisked away by his mother or one of his numerous brothers.

But sometimes, such as this rainy Tuesday, he does worse things.

He's not even sure what the hell triggered the damn psychopath. Perhaps it was the fact that he blew all of his money at the Alibi just before heading home. Maybe it was because the drug deal he ran with Ronnie had been cut short because of snooping cops. Or maybe it was simply because his synapses were firing dopamine a mile a minute causing some drug induced schizophrenic mania in his mind. And maybe, it was all in between coupled with the fact that he was sure – so fucking sure – that the man has permanently disconnected from his frontal cortex and relied primarily on his basal urges.

Regardless of this, he came in soaking wet from the rain, grumbling and mumbling along as he wrecked through his house to reach the fridge. Except today, instead of the kegs of beer that was always so graciously stocked inside, it was empty. So empty in fact, Terry slammed the damn thing shut with a vicious roar. "Why the fuck we got no beer huh?! Where da fuck is that goddamn whore!? She's sup-supposed t'a be buyin' that shit!"

He rounds around the corner to find his boys on the floor, the same dingy sky blue blanket on the floor beneath them, actually looking like they were actually having fun. They were huddled together, a piece of paper all in between them, with Mickey almost sitting atop of it babbling nonsensically as he waved about crayons between small hands. He didn't even know this household could own crayons, if he were honest to himself. His brothers were whispering to each other, picking crayon after crayon as they overlaid each color to make what looked like some sort of card. A poster perhaps?

However, it was the look abject horror on each boy's face when Terry loomed over the door frame that made him slink further into the shadows, tensing as if he were prepared to pounce on the man had he moved a quarter closer. Not that he could really do a damn thing.

"Da fuck you doing?" Terry drawled lowly, cocking his head to side as a sneer formed quietly on his ugly face.

"Nothin. We ain't doing shit," Joey quips immediately as he leans forward as though he meant to cover his brothers in a protective huddle. Colin shifts next to him, both of them digging their heels to the floor in a starting crouch. He watched momentarily surprised when both boys fully turn, shielding their younger brothers until they're shoulder to shoulder, further pushing Mickey to the back into Iggy's thin, shivering arms.

"Don't give me fucking lip," Terry snaps back, "Looks to me like you two were fuckin' drawing? Like motherfucking queers." He almost says it silently, drawing out the last words of his sentence as he stepped forward, fist drawn. Here's the thing. Drug pusher, violent Motherfucker he was, Terry was the Elitist King of homophobic pricks. That warning was enough for the two boys to shoot right up, hauling their younger brothers with them and scrambling back quickly.

"Wasn't like that Pop! We were just...we were...just..," the words died in Joey's mouth and he opted instead to push Iggy away, hoping to give the signal for the younger of the two to take Mickey and get the hell out of there. Unfortunately for all of them, they were backed nicely in the corner of the room.

"Yeah? What the fuck's it lookin' like huh?!" Terry lumbers forward as the octave of his voice draws lower still, like somehow it might break and King Kong might lumber out with wagging fists.

"We're just making a card," Colin answers truthfully, amber eyes blazing wide and fearful as he mostly began to shrink where he stood, "...for ma's birthday today." And just like always, a calloused fist lands directly against his left temple. Terry hits hard and he mostly never misses, relishing that moment when his knuckles make contact with flesh and hearing the sharp slap of skin and grunts of pain that followed. Colin did just that, his head whipping to the side and crashing against his brother harshly, the pain blooming so suddenly he's wincing as it travels up to his head in a flashing curl.

"No child of mines doing that goddamn gay ass queer bullshit! Ya fuckers hear me?!"

"Fuck!" Joey hisses as he grabs hold of his brother, wildly dodging a well aimed smack of his own as he threads back, "What the fuh-" He takes a sharp jab to the stomach, Terry's knee chasing away his breath in one blow. Doubling over, he can't help but slump back to lean against Colin who recovered enough to throw himself against Terry with all of his weight.

"Go! Iggy go!" Colin's warbled yell cuts through the heaving tension as he receives another blow to the left shoulder. It is enough for Iggy to scoop Mickey up to an awkward football hold before sidestepping as best he can to the open door.

And most times, he makes it. Not this time. Death's baited breath just stops in his throat as he watches Terry somehow twist himself away fast enough to grab hold of Iggy's passing ankle and yank him back so sharply the boy's entire frame heaves forward awkwardly as he falls. Right on top of his younger brother. Mickey, surprised and frightened little Mickey, wails against the sudden weight of his brother's torso smothering his frame. He wails so hard in fact, Terry redirects his anger and tries to swipe at him.

"Shut the fuck up!" he growls from the floor, his hand still curled tightly against Iggy's own ankle. He shakes at it for a moment as if contemplating before throwing it to the side and kicking Joey away. Joey is yelling up a cuss storm in his ear while Colin had wrapped himself against his torso begging him to let the younger ones go. "All of you! Shut the fuck up!"

"No!"

The shaking brothers finally quipped shut, deep teary faces snapping at their youngest addition with such an odd expression that Death couldn't help but feel a sting in his own non-existential soul. It was a look of fright, surprise, and pity all mixed into one. It was Mickey's first word. And he had to say it right then, right there. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

"Da fuck's he say to me?!" Terry demanded suddenly as he tries to push himself up, "Fucks that piece of shit gay motherfucker's say to me?!"

"He didn't...he didn't..."

"He didn't say shit you -"

"No! No! Noooo!"

"Mickey! Shut the fuck up -"

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. What was happening?

It all happens so fast, he wasn't even sure if he was watching. Terry makes quick work of his oldest children, barreling against them like a raging gorilla until he's left both of them on the floor as a mess of broken bones, splintered bleeding skin and harsh whining breaths. Joey's supporting and impressive looking bruise on the side of his right jaw, a reddish purple thing splattered with oozing blood. Still he's yelling and cussing along with Colin who could barely see through his two black eyes. _Leave them the fuck alone Terry! Please!_

Terry eventually tires of their tirade and ties them both down, back to back with a tight rope he fetched from the bedroom. Sneering, he watches them struggle with their bonds before turning his attention to his younger spawn. The sudden pull had left Iggy with a badly twisted ankle, swollen red and pulsing erratically. Iggy is left in the floor to curl protectively against Mickey who is clinging hard against his chest.

"No! No! No!" Mickey whimpers into his brother's shoulder weakly as Terry lumbers over. The bad man was coming. The bad man was going to take him away. "No!"

"Shut the fuck up! No one says no to me, ya fuckin' hear me you little bitch!" Terry snarls as he hauls Iggy back up, ripping Mickey away from his arms.

"Wait Terry! Wait! DAD!" Iggy's screams are largely ignored when Terry begins to shake the child out of frustration. They cry that Mickey gives then are horrifying in a new level. He's in pain, his head lolling back and forth heedlessly, little fists flying to push himself away from the man. But, he's little and needs protection. He can't fight this beast. So he cries and wails, his little torso heaving until his throat lets out a higher decibel that he never thought was possible with children. Oh, Death's dead, beating non-existential heart just aches because this, no, not this. He wishes, wishes so badly he could help, but he can't. He can't. Fuck, he can't.

He lets out a garbled choke of his own when Terry throws Micky to the ground, much like one would a football. His body bounces back for a moment, before it collapses and Mickey's cries dip to a silent whine before convulsing for a moment and stilling all together. The sharp snap is heard loud enough for Iggy, Joey, and Colin to yell. But death stills, only for a moment before leaning in again. He should be rightfully aghast at the moment but...

There is a whisper, a small buzz of Mickey's call beginning once more. But its' hardly loud enough to beckon him. And this, god, this was a moment of intense euphoria hits him because holy shit, Mickey was still alive. Because somehow, the impact didn't snap his delicate spine and kill him. And shit, what the fuck. He's still alive. He let out a small watery chuckle at the fact, shaking his head as he stares down at the poor abused child on the floor. He's still alive.

He doesn't even notice it when Terry turns back to a sobbing Iggy and practically throws him into the wooden cabinet in the living room before turning back and locking him with a heavy duty lock he fished in the kitchen drawers. Blinking, he watched with horror-stricken fascination as Terry lumbers back and assess his work. His older boys were wiggling about on the floor, legs broken, arm out of their sockets, beaten, tied and bruised. But very much alive, cussing and screaming until Terry's ears as exhausted enough for him to turn back and award them with quick sharp kicks until they're left a heaving broken pile of sharp gasps. Well, it's enough to shut them up.

And finally, he stares upon his latest still spawn on the floor and shrugs. He decides the best way to hide the body – because somehow he just assumes the child is dead – is to throw it away. So, he comes back with duct tape and a suitcase. And what the fuck, Death himself practically scrambles from his spot on the corner wall as if to throw his own punch when Terry ties the child's arms and legs with duct tape.

It is then when Terry discovers that the fucker's actually still alive. Shrugging once more, he shakes his head and duct tapes the boy's mouth shut. Might as well, for when the piece of shit wakes up right? And soon, he throws the still breathing, still very much alive child into a small wheeled, black luggage bag, zips it up and throws it down the stairs next to the garbage outside the door.

"At least the fucking bitch can stop paying for baby shit and get beer."

The psychotic, god forsaken piece of shit.

* * *

Sandy comes back four hours later. He's practically waving at her as she stumbles down the road, balancing a precarious amount of shopping bags on each arm, each expertly laden to serve to counter each others' weight as she swings her arms back in forth in a slow march. The weak drizzle of the rain does little to wave away the light smile she carries as she comes, thinking about how she can feed her family well tonight. It was her birthday night after all. She's taken an extra shift at work before stopping by the grocery to stock up. She even bought a small cake. She's hoping Mickey will like it, his first taste of cake.

Of course, she hardly notices him practically bouncing about in front of her, weaving back and forth across her vision as if somehow it would derail her to notice the black luggage back parked next to the mounds of black garbage bags place in front of the curb. Notice it, please! He half signs and half shouts in front of her, Notice the damn fucking bag! But she doesn't, not when she's too preoccupied fishing her keys in her left jacket pocket.

He practically wails in response. "Sandy for god's sake! Stop being so blind!" His call heeds no response, to his own chagrin. Of course it doesn't. He shouldn't expect her to notice because he's a spectre that isn't supposed to be noticed. His calls are secondary. He answers calls not makes them. And my god, it swells him with such anger and resentment for no one really – maybe a little bit for the bloody divine of the damn 'upstairs' – and he stills for a moment as he eyes the bag wearily. He stayed with Mickey the moment he was thrown out, having heart attacks when he hears cars and rumbles down the street thinking a trash compactor might come. He even goes as far as take a piece of wood to shoo away small animals and domestic pets. Like fuck was he going to let them tear into Mickey. All for Sandy to come back and save him from this personal hell.

And she doesn't even fucking notice.

"Sandy! Sandy! SANDY!" he calls and calls, wishing to the divine powers that somehow he can again the power to be tangible enough to reach over with working, physically, fleshy fingers and reach down to open the zipper to reveal the child inside. Except his body doesn't work in this realm, not the way he wishes it would. And fuck, what a hopeless feeling that was. What good was death when he can't fucking do shit but tap people who were about to die? Well pretty fucking efficient, that's what.

So forlornly, he watches as Sandy trudges her way up the stairs with bags in hand. Huffing, she uses all her muscles to heave the heavy bags up the stairs, straining as she does so. All the while, she calls for the boys to come help. Silently, he sinks to his knees and places a hand on the black luggage. He's sure Mickey's still in there out cold, his silent call a mere whisper in his ear. He's still okay. He's still alright.

"You're getting in too deeeeeep," a feminine voice creeps into his ear, making him jump and turn to the shadow behind him.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

* * *

Note:

My friend said I must really like to torture Mickey. I don't know, I haven't started yet I think. Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Please review! I'd like people's opinions on whether I should write this fic following canonically meeting Ian, or something changing it up? I'm not quite sure yet, what I would do.

Anyway, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing out.


	3. Year Two to Four

Note: Hello, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing in!

Thank you all for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks! Nice to know this fanfic was read and loved. Sorry you guys find this fanfic very sad. Ah...yeah. It's gonna be sad like at least most of the time. Can't really avoid it seeing as Shameless is not a happy happy show. And seeing as Death is the semi-lucid narrator. Yeah. Haha. But anyway, read and enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 3: Year Two to Four

* * *

Here's the thing about Death that people can't seem to understand. He likes to be alone. He likes his solitude. He likes being able to sip on a cup of Earl Grey while knitting a sweater in the little down time he has reaping souls. He just likes hearing silence after the constant buzzing of desperation in his ear. However, being Death, that doesn't particularly mean the act of 'dying' is something that connotes to silence and desolate loneliness that media has placed forth in the minds of the souls he reaps. So they fear Death and all that it entails. He's okay with that. He's come to accept it, even if it is a real bitch to coax souls out of their vessels. He's used to it. And he does his job well. Efficient. Professionally, well. But there are also spectres in the universe that simply don't do their shit well. Because – fuck that right?

Fate is one of them. To be honest, he's not a big fan of Fate. She's a bit of a loose cannonball. She's either doing really well and sprinkling humanity with gracious prosperity. Then comes some screwball shit move and people are fucked. It happened in the 1920's and he was balls deep in reaping the starved and the damned before she somehow threw a bolt into the crowd and started a World War a few years later. Why? Alliances. Politics. Emotions. Sematics. Either way, he's still huffy about the influx of his work load because that was a shit move on her part. He's complained to her once. She started World War II in response because she's a conniving bitch like that. She called it – "Teaching Humanity a Lesson" – and he called it Lady Fate's Menopausal Season. It's clear to say, they don't like each other very much.

So, now, as she stood behind him looking as mischievous and cold all at once, he is really not amused. "Seriously, what are you doing here?" he ventured to ask, voice clipped and professional. He doesn't like dealing with her very much. Not many Spectres do. She's kind of insane – just a bit. The mere fact that she's out here, physically in the human void, is enough for him to tense and hold himself in a guarded position. Fate never bothers to actually manifest in the human void. That's his job, not hers. She has to want something.

Instead she smiles, pearly whites flashing, contrasting against her Umber skin tone. In response he shivers, falling back a step to watch her eyes. They're always blank, an icy white gray flashing with a multitude of colors all at once, before she blinks and the colors wisps away like broken smoke. They're unnerving to stare at for more than a few seconds. "Can't I visit an old friend?" she says smoothly as she shuffles even closer.

"We're not friends," he clarifies as he huddles close to the black luggage near his feet, as though somehow he could just pick it up and hustle the hell out of her way. "What do you want?"

She considers for a moment, arms curling into a defensive position across her chest, cocking her head to the side and allowing her smoking wisp of colorful curls cascade down her right shoulder. "What a poor child," she coos as her eyes zero straight to the black bag in front of her, "what a beautiful and unlucky child."

"You stay the fuck away from him Fate," he hisses in retaliation. Lips twisting into an ugly snarl, he almost feels his shadowed form twists as if daring him to change into a bigger, more intimidating shape. Anything that would make the Lady Fate step away from his...uh...charge. He ignores his inner quip for a moment, choosing to focus on the woman smiling away in front of him. He's really not sure how dangerous she can be, but surely enough to maim the Chicago Population. And Mickey. He's not really in the mood to play with her, not today.

"Hey now," she says as she grows another easy smile and throws her hands up in mock surrender, "Have a little Faith in Lady Fate, yes?" she bats her eye lashes at him, making him flinch at her tone. Her voice was giving all types of running signals – all dangerous, nothing to trust. Inwardly, he sneers at her babble. It's ironic really how the word and definition of Faith has been interwoven with Fate. They're practically one and the same, woven together so tightly they hardly looked any different. Except, in the most simple terms, Faith is a the bastion of Hope – of Positive Energy, of a Beginning, and an Unending Trust. Fate though, Fate is only one fourth of any of that shit.

"What. Do. You. Want. Fate?"

She practically gleams where she stands, knowing somehow she's backed him in some corner to grovel. "A favor, I want a favor."

"And what makes you think I would honor such a request?" he throws back just as easily, shuffling where he stands as he turns towards the Milkovich Door. Seriously, Sandy should be flying out of there soon. Where the hell is she?

"You love this beautiful child, yes?"

"Excuse me?"

"And you would not want undo harm to happen to him now, yes?"

"What exactly are you insinuating here?!" He's practically huffing in his spot, blowing up like a puffing cat in response to her claims. She's sounding even more and more dangerous by the minute and he's not above maiming her like a defensive mother cat. He's not actually sure what would happen if another Spectre actively seeks to hurt another, but he's far more willing to find out. Anything to shut her up.

Instead she simply holds four fingers aloft and shoves them to his face. "There are four possibilities that could happen to your dear Mickey, given the circumstances. Four distinct, very possible, events that could happen in a mere minute."

He keeps silent, watching her wave the four fingers around with a dramatic sigh. "Only one of them is a Happy Ending. Well...happy enough anyway." She ends it with a small smile of her own, deftly closed three to reveal just one finger aloft. "One happy ending for poor baby Mickey."

Under normal circumstances he would have called her bluff because it sounds ridiculous. She isn't the Harbinger of Death – he is – but at that moment his sensitive ear hears the cascading conundrum of Mickey's call turn an octave louder than it was. It sounds even more desperate. Even louder and it keeps getting louder. "Mickey?!" he shouts dropping down to the ground and fanning his fingers about as if he meant to cradle the black bag to him. Except he merely hovers, unsure if somehow tapping the thing could accidentally mean he would reap the toddler's soul without meaning to. Technically, he knew it wouldn't but still – shut up, he's panicking.

"You're running out of time," Fate whispers as she crouches down with him, eyes watching the bag squarely as if she was somehow displaying a semblance of pity. Except, she wasn't because this was Fate and she doesn't do Pity.

"Fuck!"

"Let me help."

"Shut the fuck up Fate!"

"Just agree to my terms and I could help you."

"The hell you will!?" he spat, hovering dangerously close to the bag as he shoved at her direction aimlessly. Oh look at that, he goes through her figure like a mirage, just as insignificant to her as he was to humans. Well, what the fuck. "I will not allow you to fuck him over Fate! Not you!"

At that she actually frowns, smile dropping into a sad, solemn face so fast he's almost got whiplash. "I have to power to help him," she declares brazenly, looking even more sure of herself than he would ever place on anyone, "Let me help him."

"Fuck you!"

"You're losing time."

"Just – I...Let me-"

"Are you ready to reap him, Death?"

"..."

"He's just a baby. I can help him. Let me help him. Just agree to my terms."

"...I...ngh. Fuck! Help him! Fucking help him! I agree with your terms!"

He really hates dealing with Fate.

* * *

Not a second later after the words the damning words fly out of his mouth, Sandy kicks open the front door with a defying crack and jumps down the wooden steps in disarray. He can't help but frown at her appearance - disheveled, practically naked, with an oozing bloody lip – as she lands not too gracefully with a breathy yelp. What the hell happened in there? This does little to her as she scrambles to the black luggage, breathy as she tries to swallow hiccuping sobs and resolutely failing. "My baby, my baby, my baby," she chants silently as gentle, shaking fingers pry open the luggage and flip it open to reveal the child inside.

"Mickey!" she bellows out breathlessly as she gathers the cold child in her arms, snuggling him into her bare breasts. "Oh my god! Mickey!" Silently, Death crouches close to glimpse at the child. He's still pink, clothed, and breathing – which was good despite the shivering and the duct tape all over him. He takes note of the nasty purple, black bruise on his arm with a wince. It was probably broken. Sandy shuffles as she pulls him closer, fingers gently ripping the duct tape away from his face before bringing a chubby cheek against hers in relief, "Oh my god, Mickey," she sobs outright once she feels his little breath brush against her cheek. "Oh my baby boy..."

She sinks even lower into her position, cradling him gently as she picks apart at his duct tape until his limbs are loose. She's thankful that Mickey was bundled rather nicely for the cool weather outside and that Terry didn't bother to remove the clothing when he taped him up. At least, somehow, he was able to keep insulated without the duct tape clinging into his skin. If that was little assurance to her, anyway. Sullenly, she pushes forth the sweaty hair stuck to his pale forehead before pressing a kiss on his cheek. He's okay. He's okay. He's okay. He's alive and that's something right?

Beside her, Death is practically shaking as he watches Mickey bundled close to his mother's chest. He should be happy. He should but the incessant scream of his call is ear is damningly loud. Louder than he's actually ever heard and he is not okay with that sound. But he doesn't understand because Mickey is safe and he looks fine. So what the hell is the problem? Still, still... he calls and that's not okay.

"Sandy," he hears himself beg silently as he watches the child, "Sandy you need to call for help." He's sure that he can't hear him – hell, if she could they wouldn't be in this damn mess to begin with – but he had to try right? Because that call, his call, is slowly driving into his ear and it's making him nauseous. Rarely does he ever respond to calls as he does with Mickey's, but for the first time in a long long time he feels something twist in his gut at the call. It's not a nice feeling. No, he's lying. It's a damning feeling; something that makes his mouth water, knees buckle and eyes dilate at the call. It's enticing actually. Had he have little self control he would have jumped right over and tapped at his little head with joy as he reaped his soul and covet it because it was so damn sweet to hear. It's a damning feeling. It makes his heart – bless him, it really does exists – squirm and cringe in his chest.

But somehow, from the grace of the divine, she actually nods mostly to herself before crawling back up and turning to the door with a resolution so fiery he snaps back up with her. "Don't worry Mickey, Mama will make this right." And just like that she strides forward, leaving him behind to fetch the cellphone she had placed on the kitchen table along with the bags of grocery.

She tiptoes in quietly, Death pursing her heels, as she glances down at the door of the Master's bedroom warily. She's aware Terry is in there, drunk, vicious and asleep after fulfilling his own sexual needs with her. Biting her lip, she makes it through, flips open the phone and dials 911.

* * *

Death lets out a happy mutter in response, turning away momentarily to allow her to detail her own report on the phone. As he does, he catches Fate hang about in the entrance of the door frame, leaning against it nonchalantly as her face gleams once more with a large smile. The momentary joy he feels is quickly snuffed, remembering suddenly why the events were happening as it was. This is probably the reason why he could never get along with Fate. In a way, she always has this power over him. She can redirect a person's fate after all. He's watched her do it many times – leading them on to riches and ruin so easily that it makes him sick just thinking about it. And he's always there, always there, to clean up after her mess.

He detests her for it.

"The favor?" he spits out harshly. He would rather do it now, get it done and be over it. It would be easier than letting her swing it about his face like a dog with a bone.

"No," she answers back with a small laugh, "Not yet."

Ah, fuck her. He should have known.

He doesn't visit the Milkovich household for another ten months. Technically, that's a victory within itself because there were many many times he hears the jiggling call of any of it's house members and he apparates back two fold wondering what the hell is happening that could get them killed. Sometimes, it's a drug deal. Sometimes, it's a beating. All the time, it's Terry. Except, this time Terry is in jail for child abuse, child endangerment, possession of illegal substances, possession of an illegal weapon, assault and battery. It earns him thirty years, which Death whoops in joy for because fuck that bastard. He would happily skip his way to prison to collect his soul when it was finally ready to be wrenched from his broken body. Until then, he's merely satisfied the bastard is out of the family's lives. It's a victory.

However, he's been caught unaware with an Epidemic of Meningcoccal Meningitis in Nigeria which left him physically unable to check up on the family thus far. So, when he does check up on them, he's left completely bewildered to find that the Milkovich brood had added yet another member. This time, it's a girl – Amanda "Mandy" Milkovich. And honestly, he's not sure what to make of the development. So he stands, looming above her crib like a creep – and the stuff of nightmares Hollywood lives for – just watching her in deep thought.

She's cute. Very cute. Much like Mickey was at her age, except he's certain she was born with the proper weight, height, and age of gestation. She's got that going for her. Except, he notices that Mandy has a more almond shaped eye compared to Mickey's round ones and her irises seem to switch back and forth from icy blue to gray. He kind of likes her, not as much as he likes Mickey – he would never fucking admit that though – because she seems to be a feisty baby. She makes very expressive faces, her face pulling into a scowl or a sneer at things she doesn't like. She seems to brighten like the sun when she spots something that interests her such as butterflies, knives and rubber bands. Her favorite brother becomes Mickey, unsurprisingly. He's the closest in age and would often nap and play with her quietly. Mickey seems to take it all by stride, enjoying the fact that he gets to see his playmate be balanced in Iggy's hip while he's curled on the other side. And damn it, they're cute to look at.

Mandy is a colicky baby though, persistently crying and fussy that her mother and older brothers are forced to take turns to watch her. However, with Sandy being the only adult that can work she's more often than not forced to rely on her boys to help raise their younger sister.

It's just that, being boys of a young age, they don't know crap about raising a baby girl. Hell, they barely know crap about raising a two year old toddler either. Most times it leaves Mandy and Mickey a little banged up, a little bit bruised and cut, but most of the time well enough to get on with their simple lives. Still, they develop a less than modal routine revolving around the babies. Sandy, overworked and tired Sandy, gets up early enough to fix the family a meal before running of to work for sixteen hours as a Medical Transcriptionist in the University of Chicago. How she managed to fuck her way in the the job, he didn't know. In the mean time, the actual babysitting is left to the boys who more or less lug the children around pandering on different schemes. Anything to make quick money so they don't starve right?

All in all, they weren't doing that bad for such a low income, piss ass poor broken family hailing from the South Side. Hell they were doing pretty good, if he cared to compare all the other families their business he watches from time to time. But like anything in this life, it was bound to be shaken sometime.

Surprisingly, the fall doesn't actually happen to the children themselves. He's been relentlessly shadowing them with the small amount of downtime he has. He's gotten quite adept at balancing enough time with them that he could honestly call it a routine. Don't bother asking him about why he bothered to do it because he would come forth with such an embarrassingly idiotic response that it would shame all the other Spectres of the Void. At most he would give you an uneasy smile and redirect your attention to the weather because talking about his newest hobby was certainly none of your damn business anyway, thank you very much.

It comes from Sandy herself. He's almost surprised how quickly she's fallen until he is awoken from his stupor to a call he hasn't quite heard in a while. It's Sandy's call. He knows it's Sandy because this time, it sounds very much like a lark. A shrieking, angry lark. It's screeching, nonstop until it becomes a high pitched whine in the back of his head. In a pop, he apparates from the void next to her bedroom and lands in a state of fury.

"Ma! Ma wake the fuck up!" He finds the boys plus one baby girl balanced on Iggy's waist crowding around Sandy's bed. She's been shaking relentlessly by Joey whose climbed on top, crouching low to shake at her arms. "Ma! Wake up!" he cries in a blossoming panic as Sandy's arm slackens with his touch, a limp noodle lolling back and forth as he waved it around to rouse her alertness. From the foot of the bed, Colin begins to nudge at her foot as if he meant to tickle her awake. Nothing happens. Because of course, what the hell did they expect to happen.

"Sandy, what did you do?" he crouches close, right next to Colin to examine her. She's on her back, a listless toy being shaken to and fro. She's barely breathing from what he can see, her chest barely rising as she is jostled. Her head lolls back to reveal a sweaty face, matted with her long black hair and pale as the moonlight spreading across the room from the open window. As her head lolls to the side, he sees her jugular vein extend and pulse, hard and deep in her neck. "Sandy?"

The trail of saliva that trickles from her half open mouth is concerning enough when suddenly her body bolts up, spazzing itself into a grand mal seizure so suddenly all of the occupants in the room back away as she convulses. Her head throws itself back, eyes rolled up, back arching and limbs shaking and shivering, tense and taut for a long minute before it slackens into a limp. What the fuck. What the fuck?!

"Ma!" Iggy cries from the door way as he tries to step closer. Mickey whimpers close to his left, his body curling against his brother's hip as he buries his chubby face into his bony shoulder. Mandy is left bubbling to Iggy's right, not quite understanding the situation but keeping quiet enough to know that something interesting was happening.

And it gets worse. In silent horror, they watched as Sandy's face becomes turns into an ashy pale white, slowly turning a blueish gray every second that passed. She makes a half choking noise in the back of her throat, half mouth opened with trembling lips and drooling saliva. Death draws away in abject fright, two hands cupped in his ear when her shrieking becomes a bullhorn in his ears. She's calling. She's desperate. Tap Tap. Snip Snip. Oh...but he doesn't want to. Not Sandy. Not her. Not to these kids. Not to...not to Mickey.

"Oh shit! She's not breathing!" Joey cusses as he scrambles forward. He practically throws himself on top of her, turning her over to her side and prying her mouth open in the process. "Colin! Colin! COLIN!" he hisses until his younger brother, wilting and teary – eyed, stands to attention. "You need to call for help!"

"I...I..."

"Fucking call for help!"

"I...Yeah...," and he rushes to the phone outside sobbing all the way.

* * *

"It's only a matter of time that bitch would fuck up. She fucked up marrying my son-of-a-bitch piece of shit brother. Now she's up and fucked them kids of hers. Poor little bastards." He flinches at the condescending woman's tone, feeling mighty delicate and touchy at the moment as though his own family were getting judged so harshly. In a way they were, as he seemed to have permanently seeped his way in the the family as their silent plus one. He's invested time in this family – and still don't ask him why because he fucking doesn't know – and he feels more than a little at fault at what had happened hours prior.

To be honest, he wasn't sure what the hell happened. Apparently it was a drug overdose. Apparently, Sandy had taken too much opioids and anti psychotics (Oxycodone, Zoloft and Adderall mostly) in one go that she overdosed. Where the hell she even got her hands on those types of medication he didn't know. And that's the thing here. He should have known. Should have shadowed the hell out of her too. Find out what the fuck was happening with her life. What was happening in a work? Was she being harassed or some shit? But no, he didn't and now he didn't know what the fuck happened. And now...and now, well here they were. And he's still asking himself, "Why the fuck would you do this Sandy? Why would you do this to your kids?"

Granted, he knows he's probably taking this harder than most. Hell, okay, yeah he was. He is Death. He shouldn't care. At most he could have comically patted her back and bated her on, forcing her to take more that she actually would have died from it so he may finally reap her soul. Except, the mere thought horrifies him enough to make him pace to and fro as they pumped her stomach and infused solutions into her. She's connected to a full IVF laced with Divalproex Sodium when she had another seizure once she entered the ER. Right now, he's not sure how she's doing.

All he knows is that the kids are gonna be fucked up from this. The older ones mostly because the youngest of the brood were much too young to actually remember anything – bless them. However, he eyes the older ones almost suspiciously because they haven't stirred from where they were situated. Mandy is curled in Colin's arms, cuddled against his chest tightly as he rocked her to sleep. He is crying silently, hiccuping mostly to himself as he gently wipes the tears that drop to Mandy's face. Mickey is propped in Iggy's lap, coaxed to stay quiet due to his own exhaustion, cheek pressed against Iggy's collar bone and little fists buried into heavily into his baggy black, ratty T-shirt. Iggy presses his chin gently against the top of Mickey's head, eyes stinging as he runs through the child's hair lost in thought. And then there is Joey, oozing with anger so profound he's cussing up a shit storm under his breath, as he sits there in his cold plastic chair with his legs swinging to and fro madly.

"For god's sake Joey, shut the fuck up. No one needs to hear that shit in the fucking Emergency Room," the woman who sat next to him said. Her name is Rande. Evidently, she is the youngest sister of Terry Milkovich. She's a hard looking woman with sharp features, a permanent scowl and frizzy reddish brown hair gathered into a disheveled pony tail. She is awarded with a heated glare from the boy which she mildly brushes aside with a defeated sigh.

"Look," she began, "we all know this is a shit show, but CPS is already up our ass. Ya aware that you're ma's facing conviction and jail time right?" Well, she's certainly to the point isn't she? Of course they're aware. A drugged up woman showing up with high toxicity levels and a brood of kids without a home or suitable guardian to care for them. Just another case in the South Side.

"I told em I'd take you all in," she went on catching the older ones attention, "but that don't mean I can actually care for all of you. You're a lot of mouth t'a feed ya know?" She says it almost ashamed for a moment before steeling herself and pressing on, "It don't mean I don't want all of you...I'd keep you all in a heartbeat if I had that sorta money."

"Take Mickey and Mandy," Iggy's resolute voice cuts through quickly. Rande raises a stiff eyebrow hesitantly, turning to look at all the children one by one. Joey is quick to add his own opinion - "Fuck yeah, take em. We can handle our shit!" - while Colin gives an encouraging nod her way. Death practically wilts in the background, heart stammering in his chest. Well bless these children and their somehow innate selflessness. Where the fuck they got it from, it escapes him.

"Ya sure about that?"

"We can bunk in with Uncle Ronnie," Joey decides throwing a finger to jerk at his two younger brothers as if he's already decided their plan of action, "we can do odd jobs for him and shit. That way we dun have to change school districts or nothing."

"Well, I gotta call Ronnie to make sure but..."

"He wouldn't mind. He'd be glad to have some lackeys."

"...we go?" They all turn their attention to Mickey who chooses this exact moment to speak his mind. He's pushed himself back away from Iggy's grip, looking up at his older brothers in some sort of disheveled curiosity and dazed exhaustion. He looks at Joey, Colin and Iggy one by one, his strong eyebrow furrowed into such a solemn look Death would have squealed and laughed had the occasion actually called for it. Silently, he taps at Iggy's left breast before fisting the fabric harshly, "...we go?" he asks again.

"Nah little man," Iggy says gently as he smooths Mickey's eyebrow with is thumb. "You're gonna go to Aunt Rande and we're gonna go to Uncle Ronnie. You be good and take care of Mandy for us yeah?"

At that, Mickey's lips curl into a scowl so close to Joey's own as he rears back in anger. "No!" he whines sharply and buries his head into Iggy's chest, "No!"

"Don't really have much of a choice little man. We'll visit you guys, I promise." Iggy reminds him gently, voice rasping and breaking as he lets out a small sob, "m'gonna miss you though."

* * *

Mickey and Mandy spend just about two years with Aunt Rande while Sandy is sentenced to Women's Correctional for Child Endangerment and Possession of Illegal Substances for five years. Death makes it a point not to visit her unless she's truly dying. Not because he's ashamed or disappointed to see her. Honestly, it's more due to the fact that his time is stretched even thinner and he simply keeps her in the back of his mind. Sandy, Sandy. Why would you do this to yourself?

Most times, he spends it with Rande and the younger brood. In retrospect, he probably misjudged the woman quite harshly. She's a no nonsense type of woman, crippled with chronic MS, equipped with a sharp tongue and even sharper disciplinary skills. She kept the children quite cared for, well fed and well clothed, even going as far as starting Mickey on the Alphabet and Numbers the moment they were planted in her living room.

"You're a smart kid Mickey," she told him as she wrote down the Letter A for him to trace on a small blackboard she propped against the wall, "don't fucking waste it like your dead beat father and addicted mother, yeah?"

Death was proud to say that Mickey was certainly smart, grasping the concept of the alphabet, numbers, shapes and colors so quickly that when he entered kindergarten it was rather easy for him. Of course, Rande didn't seem to be content with just that, making sure that the child also knew how to fight and do housework. The fighting, technically wasn't her idea. As promised, their brothers came over as much times as Ronnie allowed – not that the man actually cared just as long as the fuckers weren't arrested or some shit – and spent time teaching their youngest brother some tricks.

It happens one afternoon when Mickey comes home sporting a bloody lip and bruised right temple. Apparently, he fought another kid to keep the crayons Aunt Rande told him not to lose. And he fought badly because he came home bruised, crying, and crayonless. With a sigh, Aunt Rande patched him up, Mandy gave him a kiss for his boo boo and pushed him to play tattle tale to his older brothers. They weren't very pleased with the news.

"You're four Mickey! Ya gotta learn how to fight back!" Joey lectured, hands on his hips looking even more annoyed and gangly as he was in the throws of prepubescent teenage recklessness. "Here, show me how to make a fist."

Mickey, being the adorable semi-gentle thug he was, pulled a small fist and looked at his brothers curiously. He tried his best to impress his brother, like every little sibling with their sibling complex does. However, it seemed they were always more impressed with his fighting skills, intimidating skills, and general recklessness than anything else. Every single one of them pulled a long face, as though somehow he had actually disgraced the name of Milkovich. Yeah, well evidently, he did.

"That's a shit fist Mick," Joey said shaking his head.

"You're gonna break your thumb," Colin added pointing at it's placement.

"And you don't point it like that," Iggy said as an afterthought.

Death stood by the corner shaking his head. He doesn't really condone any of this. He would rather people settle arguments diplomatically – despite how utter useless it can be in the political level because ultimately humans are giant babies. Still, he suppose there had to be merits teaching little Mickey how to fight. This was, after all, South Side. It certainly wasn't a cozy neighborhood of white Pickett fences, suburban housewives of the 50's and fancy cars. Maybe, it was okay to teach him how to fight. Maybe.

"Fuck! Mick! Don't swing like that!"

Or maybe not.

* * *

There aren't many times he actually has time for himself anymore. He's not gonna blame that on humanity this time, nor will be be willing to blame it on his new hobby either. Still, this time, this night it's rather silent. Silent meaning the lull of desperate voices in his ear isn't screeching enough to warrant a visit to the void just yet. It is enough time for him to actually make himself a cup of tea, this time Green Tea with Lemongrass, and tuck into it for a moment to relish it's taste. "Mmm..."

"My god, you're boring."

Jumping, his hand rattles for a split second to spew his tea over the cup's side, burning his fingers with scalding liquid. Tsking, he brings it down gently and brings a tissue to wipe at his fingers idly. It's a good thing he can't physically feel real pain or that shit would have actually hurt. Pursing his lips, he turns to his unwanted visitor with a scowl.

"Fate."

"Thantos."

He can't help roll his eyes at the name. "That's not my name."

"It use to be, once," she answers back with a small laugh, "when the humans were still figuring stuff out. Greece was such a happening place." She laughs gently at the thought, throwing her head back for a moment just to relish the memory. Her eyes flash gold for a second before it wisps away and she is left poking at her smoke like hair in thought. Hm, he remembers Greece a lot different than she did.

"And what do I owe this honor?" he says leaning against his desk slightly, "I'm certain this isn't a house call?"

She laughs again, flitting close and actually holding into his arm. His eyebrows raised at the touch – feeling both like it burned hot and cold at the same time – and made a move to shrug it away when she whispered, "I came to collect that favor of mine..."

Fuck. Of course she did. What was it this time? Help clean up some epic epidemic like the black plague? Yeah, that was fun. He reeked of 'death' so much even he was fucking sick of it. He purposely grounded spices and flowers to soak with is mask that time so he could walk through throngs of the deceased without gagging. He's really not looking forward to it again. Between his pondering, he winces at the sullen shriek that increases in a high pitched volume in his ears. Ah, he's been hearing this sound, much like the screech of an eagle pass through his ears for a week. But this time, it's intensity is resounding enough for him to wince. He supposed it's time now, to collect this soul. It's in the Chicago Area well. He might as well collect and then check on Mickey and Mandy before they retire for bed.

"I need you to ignore it," Fate whispers gently into his left ear as she curls herself hard against his left arm. That caught his attention. In rapid succession he falls back and tears himself away from her vicious grip.

"Excuse me?!"

"Ignore it Thantos. Ignore that call. I know you hear him. You need to ignore it." she says it all calmly as though somehow that was actually a fucking option. "I need you to ignore it."

No, it's not an option. "Are you out of your mind?!" he snaps back, biting his lip resolutely as he momentarily ignores – just momentarily – the sound so he could focus his attention on her. Fate now looks resigned, solemn and silent as she watches him. Wincing, he groans out and turns, willing himself to phase into the Void. Hell no was he ignoring the call. That was his job, his only damn purpose. And he did his well. Efficiently. Professionally. Unlike fucking some people.

Except, Fate wasn't going to take that standing down because suddenly she's next to him, as he phases his way into the the dark street. He's actually not sure where the hell it is, but it looks like a high way. Scoffing, he thinks for a moment that there might be a traffic accident just waiting to happen and the certain caller is an unfortunate casualty. In truth, he hates stopping by car collisions. They're messy, painful, and sometimes gruesome to look at. It's not a nice look, to be splattered across the pavement with splintered bits of twisted heavy metal. What a way to go.

Stalking down the road, the last expects to see is a little girl, shouting as cars pass by seventy five miles an hour. "Help! Please! Please! Someone stop! Please help us!" she calls out, waving hard at each passing car. They hardly give her any attention. Groaning, he can't help stalk closer to watch her. She's waving pathetically, arms waving above her head in frustration. Is she the one calling? It's certainly here, it's very close that he can't pinpoint the location as it bounces about his ears like a siren call. Was she the one calling? Is she going to get hit by a car or something? His stomach rumbles at the idea and he feels just a wee bit nauseous at that thought. Yeah, he's not looking forward to scene at all.

"Don't reap him, Thantos. You can't," Fate whispers behind him. He barely spares her a glance before stalking the rest of the way. It is only when he gets close does he notice the two younger boys perched on the side of the road next to a broken, run down shitty white van. A four year old – at least he thinks so since he looked a bit like Mickey's age – gently rocking a wailing toddler. How he didn't notice the sound, he wasn't sure. But it is then when he realizes that the sound itself was coming from the toddler himself.

The toddler who is wailing, screaming, and shaking so hard he's basically a fiery tomato. Under the light of the waning lamp post, he catches the color of his hair. Red, just like the rest of him. The boy carrying him looks like he's in the verge of tears himself, rocking them both and muttering gently into the baby's ear. "It's okay. I got you. It's okay."

The scene reminds him so much of his own favorite brood that he stills for a moment just to watch. It's still amazing to him how the love of family works. Piece of shit it was, but people – regardless of age – still have enough heart to take care of others. Even till death. Wincing, it reminds him enough of his job that he steels himself up to follow through. He's barely a finger breath away from tapping the child when Fate opens her mouth.

"This is for Mickey's well being, you know."

Tensing he turns back to her in a fury. "Bullshit! Don't keep fucking using his name like it's your damn trump card! You don't get to do that! You have no fucking power to do that! Where the fuck is your decency?!"

"I never lie."

"You're a piece of shit! Don't you dare keep me from doing my job!"

"You've done it before. Once. You ignored his call."

"Shut the hell up! You don't ….you -" he chokes for a second, feeling the lump in his throat suddenly expand in size and keeping him silent. Swallowing dryly and wincing at the feeling he whispers out gently, "you don't have the right to talk about him."

"Because you loved him, am I right?" Fate said with a said gentle smile, this one showing such much pity and compassion he was sure he was hallucinating. He was sure that Green Tea was laced with something because no – Fate doesn't fucking do pity.

"What if I told you that he's going to grow up to be very important...to Mickey?" she dared to ask, glancing gently at the toddler who has exhausted himself into a stupor and trying vainly to catch his breath, "That he will have a profound effect on Mickey? That he may grow to be -"

"Stop."

"Thantos..."

"Don't you dare," he said throwing a hand up to stop her, "Don't you dare, Fate."

"Thantos, please..."

Shaking his head, he let out a small sigh. He's wincing now, feeling the inevitable effect of a migraine pound away in his head at the shrieks this boy is presenting. For a split moment, he sees it. His soul, a small light little thing, golden and bruised – already tainted by the damn world – release from the body and float just atop his small chest. He could easily just reach for it, coax it to him gently, clasp it his palms and guide him to the beyond. It would be so easy. So fucking easy. Just a small tap. Tap Tap. Snip Snip.

"Wh...what's his name?" he asks wearily, holding one hand aloft for a moment in clear thought. Fate looks at his open palm for a moment, wondering what his next move may be. However, with a leap of fate (every fucking pun intended), she smiles at him gently and says, "Ian Clayton Gallagher." He snorts at the name. Clayton? What a stupid name.

He's gonna regret this. Somehow, he's gonna look back at this moment and just scream because this right here was the moment where everything changes for him, for them. And fuck, he wasn't sure how any of this would turn out. But...if, if it meant something than maybe it's okay? Maybe. Gently, he coaxes the small soul back into the body, easing him in gently and cooing along. There you go, my boy. Just hang on there okay? Hang in there. When the light dissipates back into the toddler, he's hit with a pang of pain ripping through his left temple he's left woozy for a moment. He barely feels Fate grab hold of his shoulders to steady him and press a small kiss on his temple as thanks. Groaning, he rubs his temples steadily as though it could relieve some of his pain. Instead, he's hit with another throbbing wave, enough to incapacitate him and send him toppling to the ground with a graceless thud. Well, fuck.

He barely notices the girl jog over to her siblings half hysterical with fright when she realizes her younger brother stopped making noise. "Is he okay? Is he still breathing?" she cries out helplessly as she presses a hand against his burning head, "He's still burning up!"

"Fi..."

"Come on Lip! We have to take Ian to the hospital or something!"

"But...but Fi..."

"Now Lip!" With that she practically hauls her brothers up, Toddler Ian in one arm like a cradle and Lip in her hip before running down the street in an awkward waddle. Fate lets out a small sigh, as though she's wishing them luck. She should do better and let them win the lottery or some shit to pay for medical bills. Instead, she wraps an arm around him and lets him lean against her. Wincing, he watches blearily as odd trio of children disappear into the shadows of the night. Yeah, they better fucking make it.

* * *

Note:

I have no words. Writing each chapter in one sitting is exhausting. Uhm...yeah. Tell me what you think about my subtle introduction of Ian? At this point, I dunno.

Thank you for reading, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing out.


	4. Year Five

Note: Hello, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing in!

Uhm so, few things I need to clarify. First, I didn't make up the thing that happened to Ian at all. The incident was mentioned by Fiona when she was seeking custody as the legal guardian for the Gallagher Brood in Season 3 I believe. I just, kind of, uh...added my own touch to it because I was counting years and it worked out? Yeah. Haha.

Second, a couple of my friends made some comments saying that this was going rather slowly and wanted Gallavich to happen already. Unfortunately, I absolutely refuse to do that. This piece, first and foremost, is a character study piece for Mickey. I absolutely love his character, from the beginning to the end. However, because we only get a glimpse pass the surface, we can only judge from hints how and why his personality is what it is. And, because I love giving depth to such an interesting character, I'm sort of trying to fill in the gaps as to what happened to the kid. To try to understand him in a level that made sense, I guess. This will the same for Ian in the long run. That is the reason why I needed Death as a narrator because he was an outside character that can be used as my voice while I toy around with these characters a bit. However, because bad writing made suddenly made Ian turn to such a shallow character, I may be forced to improvise to understand him a bit better as I did with the Milkovich brothers. Until then, please be patient with me? Thanks. Read and Enjoy guys.

* * *

Chapter 4: Year 5

* * *

You know that time in a parent's life when they look at their children in the face and wonder what the hell happened? When they stare down at their progeny and just go - "Who the hell is this?" This is that time. Except Death neither has children, claims to be a parent, or have any substantial knowledge or experience under his repertoire that would claim otherwise. To be honest, he's not even sure if it were normal or acceptable to feel this way, but damn it, he feels this way. It's just that, well, it happens so damn fast. So fast in fact he feels like he's just blinked and ages passed by without his notice. It happens sometimes, when he's in the throng of it all that he looses his concept of time and space. Maybe that's what happened.

It hits him one fine November morning when the crisp cool air curled itself permanently in Chicago. It hits him when Mandy, sweet sweet innocent and gentle Mandy, stands up, fluffs her pink princess dress – the one she received as a present from Aunt Rande for her third birthday – and venomously refuses help to fix her hair. Because she was a "big girl" now. It earns her a small laugh from Rande, a shrug and she left the girl to her own ministrations as she navigated the world of girl full of hair brushes, clips, bows, and thingy-ma-gigs he knew nothing about. He decides to leave her alone when she basically puffs like a cat as she accidentally tangles a hairbrush deep within her roots. Oh, hell no. He has enough knowledge not to stick around for that.

It hits him when Mickey, the somewhat sweet smart aleck boy that he was, withdraws so suddenly from his normal self that he's left staring at another child all together. There is nothing physically wrong with him. He's still short, but a nice cute short. He's a tad bit underweight, skinny and lanky all around, as he just falls short of the expected BMI requirement for his age. This is easily supplemented with Aunt Rande forcing Mandy and him to intake Flintstone Multivitamins and Specialized Milk Formula. He can run, skip, holler and jump. He can draw his shapes, numbers, point out items and dress himself. Hell, he's even properly potty trained that he absolutely refuses to allow Aunt Rande to help him because he's kind of 'shy' about it. Mickey at five years old has reached properly ticked some obvious Developmental Milestones.

And he knows this because he may or may not have been reading up on Child Development – shut up, what he does in his downtime is no one's business but his own. He's learned enough to properly expect some changes to occur as he watches his brood grow. Except, now, he thinks he may have skipped on some very important things because Mickey is acting up. Acting up, not in the typical toddler breakdowns in the grocery store that makes parents look incapable. It's a striking difference, enough for him to crane his head in confusion. Perhaps it has been a slow acting thing and he never noticed? He's been rather busy that he doesn't always have the time to check up on his favorite brood. Maybe, he's been gone far too long to really know what has happened now? Maybe.

His concern is palpable enough to shadow the child relentlessly. He follows him on a standard weekend, when he comes home silently. He's listlessly kicking an aluminum can as he goes, clutching a dirty Batman backpacked sniped from a store by his brothers as a present. He notes glumly the scowl that seemed to be permanently plastered on the boy's face, biting his lips and eye brows harshly furrowed. He shakes his head as the boy edges closer, noting that he's even more rugged and dirty than when he left, an oozing scab on his left knee, fresh road burn on his elbows, and a large bump swelling on the right side of his forehead. What the hell happened now? Did he get into a fight?

He is greeted, not too well by his Aunt who takes one good look at him and squawks not too pleased. "Oh what the hell? Again Mickey?! Again?!" she chastises lightly as she brings an ice pack to his head, "I told you not to let the other kids gang up on you! Tell the teacher!" Silently, Mickey nods as he shrugs off his backpack and bites hard on his lip as though it meant to stop the quiet stinging of his red rimmed eyes. Still, he doesn't seem all that keen to expound any further which is more frustrating than tears. Death is left in the corner shaking his own head. What kids? Is Mickey being bullied? Is this what all of this glumness and idleness is all about?

The rest of the weekend does nothing to placate his concern when Mickey acts particularly agitated as he goes on with his life. He spends two hours bent over a coloring book, coloring in the lines quite well he may add, until he becomes frustrated that he actually chucks the rest of crayons against the wall as he wails. Mandy squeaks beside him, hollering at how her favorite color – this time fuchsia because barbie pink was stupid – broke against the plaster of the wall. He spends the rest of the day in a haze of frustration, grumbling and grunting, but utterly silent as he picks at his wounds and gazes around him as though he was in pain. He then spends a few hours of the next day idling with his older brothers who just came from a recent drug run. Not their first, surely, but apparently it was a big job because the boys were exhausted and not very keen on doing much but napping because Ronnie didn't allow 'laziness' in his house. As the older trio begins to announce their leave, they leave a tearful Mickey who was silently begging them to take him next time.

"Can't do that Mick," Iggy placates as he rubs Mickey's hair and forehead, "too dangerous. Aunt Rande would skin us. 'Sides it's cold out. You'll get sick."

Mickey merely sniffles in response and wraps his skinny arms around Iggy's frame until he's practically squeezing him. Death takes note of the particularly nasty purple and black against the pale skin of Iggy's back as Mickey grips upon his shirt enough to ride up and expose it. Welts. They look like welt marks. However, Iggy merely winces for a moment before steeling himself and wrapping his arms around Mickey nice enough for Mickey to relax under his hold. "I don't like it here," Mickey admits quietly.

Colin comes forward and gives Mickey a once over until he finally asks, "Is Aunt Rande doing bad?" Silently, he brings a hand to yank the fabric of Iggy's T-shirt down in one quick swipe before Mickey could notice. They share a small look before Joey edges closer from where he's perched, shuffling as he did.

"Bad?"

"Like she acting different than she is with us?"

Mickey takes a careful consideration of his question before he shakes his head, "No. She sometimes gets all numb and asks us to do stuffs for her." He elaborates quickly by adding, "Like askin' me 'ta fix the table for dinner and stuffs." The brothers look at each other in silent thought, one silent conversation being held with mere hard stares before Colin stiffens and gives him a small nod and smile.

Joey redirects Mickey's attention with a small pat in the bag, "That's good Mick. Ya help Aunt Rande alright? And you keep Mandy safe, yeah? She's startin' school next year and needs a big brother to protect her."

At that, Mickey's expression darkens and he presses himself against a silent Iggy once more. "I don't think I can protect her. You take her with you, you can protect her."

At that the boys suddenly converge, pressing against each other in a huddle as if it meant protecting their young from the outside world. Silently, Death crouches closer from where he situated himself in the shadows to hear their harsh whispers against the howl of the cold winter air. "What do you mean by that?" Joey hisses not to softly, "someone giving you a hard time in school?! What did I tell ya? Ya punch them, like we taught you t'a do! Tell me their names! They're looking for a fucking beating!" Ah, so maybe it is as Death thought. Mickey's being bullied in school.

"But...what if they're bigger than me?"

"So who gives a fuck if they're bigger than you?" Joey spats out looking even more displeased by Mickey's response, "you're a fucking short stack kid! But that don't mean you don't have a clear shot at kicking some stupid big kid's ass, ya know what I'm sayin'?!" Death can't help but let out a sigh at Joey's response. Always aggressive this child; always thinking with his fists before he can even make words. But then again, look at the damn asshole who kept him by his side. Joey should win some sort of medal for keeping himself out of juvenile detention or a psychiatric ward. Still, he's not the best role model Mickey could look up to. Not when Joey pulls back and demonstrates some other skills such as – Kick them hard on the knees where it could break or Sack them in the nuts cuz that shit fucking hurts. No, children, you don't do any of that. You're suppose to tell a teacher or responsible adult.

"But...but..."

"No Mick!" Joey hushes as he finally glares down at his brother, "you're gonna get your ass kicked if you start lettin' them treat you like that!"

"But..."

"Mickey," Colin adds as he curls himself against his brother and places a small kiss on his head, "we just don't wanna see you get hurt okay? This time they're gonna be shovin you, but what if next time they'll be taking a shiv? Ya know?"

"I...what's a shiv?"

"Bullshit Colin, toddlers with shivs?"

"You don't know..."

"The point is," Iggy finally says after minutes of consideration. Death sighs as he turns to the younger of the brood in silent relief. While the older two always meant well, they often get derailed and think of confounded things that would make the situation much worse than it was. Of course, this could only be blamed on childhood inexperience, the advent of childhood imagination running wild, along with a less than stellar role models of their own. Really, not their fault. Yet, Iggy always seems to be miles ahead, often straddling along being painfully too mature for his age before regressing just as easily back into a simple child who yearns for something nice like candy or a warm house. "The point is," he begins against as he edges further way from his brothers to gain Mickey's attention, "there's always gonna be someone bigger than you that's gonna give hell, Mickey. And you need to learn to protect yourself from it, okay? We...we can't always be there to help okay?"

"...okay."

"And you gotta help Mandy protect herself, okay? She's small and little and kind of a girl so she's gonna be facing worse shit than us. And she's gonna need tough as hell brothers to help her." There is a hard edge to his voice suddenly that Death cannot help but pick up. He finds it astonishing really, how easily the kid seems to understand the situation that is thrown over them before anyone his age could easily grasp the magnitude of their situation. It seems Iggy has known enough women in his life who were demoralized, objectified, and violated enough to grasp that sooner or later, his own flesh and blood baby sister would face the world despite how incapable and how unfair the hand of fate has dealt for her. Fucking Fate.

"...Yeah." Mickey finally relents as he drops his fists to his to his sides and tears up in response. The burning shame he feels makes his face redden enough for him to drop his gaze to the ground. Instead, Iggy merely awards him with a small smile and reaches over to pat at his head, carefully avoiding his injuries.

"We're all we got Mick," he warns him sternly, "and we got to be strong to be there for each other. We Milkoviches...we keep going, Mick, no matter how shitty. You get that?"

Nodding his head in an effort to squelch his tears, Mickey lets out a hoarse, "Okay."

* * *

Finally, Death relents and actually follows Mickey to school. He hates going to schools. Not because he hates children because my god, he loves how carefree children can be. He loves to hear them laugh, see them play and generally just enjoy life. But he hates school, because out of all the innovations that humanity has reached, school never seems to change. It's the same shit since humanity figured out that they should be imparting their knowledge to the younger generation. It's like a nonsensical algorithm of classrooms with lined up desks, silent halls, hard schedules and boredom twisted beneath the dull pages of an obsolete book. The school system hasn't changed since forever and he's really not looking forward to see the 'new innovations' that make it easier for children to learn. What a bunch of lies.

Still, he goes, like a parent hovering over their pampered child as though they were sure the child would sooner drop dead the moment he steps into school grounds. And surprisingly, it starts out as normal and dreary boring enough for him to look about in suspicion. The children don't give Mickey another glance as they hang up their bags and trail into their desks to wait for their teacher to come. She comes in with a flurry of papers, efficiently disturbing coloring pages as she gulps down caffeine like a drug line. "Good morning!" she sing songs in false cheer that makes him wince, "Good morning! Good morning! To you and you and you!" she points at each student deftly before stopping short to Mickey who practically wilts in his seat at her sudden attention. "Ah! Mister Milkovich! Good morning." There is a certain edge in her voice that he finds himself not liking but he is cut off from his ramblings when the PA system cranks open to begin the Pledge of Allegiance. Ah, so it seems Kindergartners are forced to listen to this speech despite not understanding a word. Poor bastards.

The rest of the morning starts out amicably enough, with a coloring activity centered on the Letter W. Groaning he almost feels like an adult strapped to a chair as he watches Dora the Explorer. What letter does Wings start with? W? Okay! What else starts with the Letter W? What? I can't hear you! Like...fuck. He's half tempted to rip off his own face when he a commotion makes his crane his head to Mickey's side. The teacher – Mrs. Pearson – is standing over him, hands on her hips as her face morphs into a bitterly scornful frown. What?

"Now Mickey," she bites out harsh enough for Mickey to wilt back, arms crossed against his little chest as he bows his head at her tone, "what did I tell you about taking your other classmates' things?"

"I..."

"Speak up!"

"But I didn't..."

"Don't lie," she accuses condescendingly, "I saw you take your seatmate's crayon when he wasn't looking."

"I didn't -"

"And we don't tolerate speaking against authority either!" she snaps just as easily. Authority? What the hell is she even saying? Does she not understand that Mickey wouldn't actually understand the words 'tolerate' and 'authority' for at least another three years when they start spelling bees or some other thing well rounded children do? He certainly doesn't understand her resolute anger either. It's one thing, to warn a child about wrong actions but she seems to be extra harsh on Mickey for no apparent reason. Maybe he was being a tad bit too overly protective, but he was not enjoying the sordid look on the woman's face as she scowled down at the child in question. She was looking at him as though she had spotted excrement lodge itself under her heel. She was looking at him as though he was physically and mentally beneath her. It wasn't a pleasant look to give to any child.

"I'm...I'm..."

"To the cabinet Mr. Milkovich," she hissed to a point, reeling back to point at a desolate lonely looking back door. Mickey slowly stands up, keeping a careful look upon his face despite the shaking of his gait and the quiver upon his lip, trailing to the door and opening it softly. It's a broom cabinet, it seems, housing arts and craft things and what not. It was also dark, dusty and riddled with mold. What the hell? Still, Mickey presses on as though he was actually use to this, stuffing his small frame inside despite the tight fit and closes the same door to his own face. Okay, no, what the fuck?!

Death practically tears himself close to his side just as the door closes. "Mickey?!" he calls out softly.

"And that is a lesson to all of you," Mrs. Pearson ends with an after note as she turns back to the attention of the class who kept quiet in some sort of stupefied rapture, "that stealing like a naughty thug is not a good thing." With a flick of her hand, she begins again, flouncing about to help her kids, pretending not to hear the beginnings of a muffled choke from inside the closet. Death is left seething on the floor, a sad pathetic hand against the door as he listens to Mickey cry. The fucking bitch.

Unfortunately, this is not the only incident involving the old cretin – he has taken to calling her that because she is old (not as old as him but ancient looking enough to receive such a title) and a fucking bitch. The old cretin seemed to have it out against Mickey making crude comments of his 'indecency, lack of manners, and thuggish display', to no real fault of his own. Mickey is allowed to assimilate back into the class at lunch. She simply dismissed the class, letting them take out their lunches as she went back to order food for the others, promptly ignoring the fact that she has one still inside a damn broom closet. He wonders silently at what point has she already passed the lines of neglect, endangerment and abuse because surely she can be sued for this right? Still, no one seems to have noticed – much to his utter dismay – until Mickey's own seatmate rises from his seat and opens the door.

He unveils a silent Mickey, exhausted from crying and curled into a fetal position on the floor, before promptly dropping to the ground and sitting in front of him in silence. "Mickey?" he asks as he cranes his head. His seat mate is small, mouse-like in appearance, but holds himself aloft with a nice bout of confidence and intelligence that he's inclined to like him. "You okay?"

"M'fine Lip," Mickey mutters into his knees before looking up at the boy in front of him, "She gone?"

"Yeah," Lip says with a shrug, "she was being a bitch." Death blinks at his decisive tone before shaking his head. Sometimes he forgets he's still in South Side, a place not known very much for it's sensitivity for children.

"Yeah..."

"Wanna share lunches?" Lip asks with another careful shrug. He brings forth the two bagged lunches – his and Mickey's – that he snatched from inside their bags. Mickey merely shares a ghost of a smile before unfurling enough to nod and tuck into their food in relative peace. The boys aren't bothered again until a burly looking boy, looking much older to be in kindergarten if he were being honest, lumbers over. Uh oh. You know that comically slow moment in every single one of those godforsaken movies about childhood, where the stereotypical bully comes to make the main character cry and feel shitty about themselves? This is that moment. And really, Death finds it mildly ironic he was watching it happen to his favorite person. Because...well, what the fuck was he suppose to do about that? Sit back, passively watch with some sort of knowledge that Mickey would get over it someday because he's the bigger person? Yeah, yeah, like he had a fucking choice.

Except it doesn't go as he thought. The bully doesn't snort out lumbering words about giving them their lunch or money or whatever. Instead, he grins and awards Lip a sharp kick to the side, sending the smaller child sprawling to the floor, food flying about in crumbled heap. Lip yelps, taking a moment to regroup himself, before flying back against the larger broad in a garbled yell. Oh, what the fuck is this shit now? The kid was a flying energy of sharp jabs and hair grabbing, seemingly using his impressively short stature to wreck the larger boy. Death is left momentarily curious and equally surprised until Mickey seemed to have joined the two, a righteous fury of jabs and kicks when he notices that the larger boy has taken a bite of Lip's shoulder.

"Uh...," Death finally answers as he stares. Right...right...South Side. He shouldn't be surprised. A bunch of five year olds getting into a brawl that is reminiscent of a gang fight over...what ever the fuck they're fighting about? Mickey getting into the brawl because he got his friends back? Yeah, yeah. South side. Typical. Even if it shouldn't be.

"BOYS!" Eventually the boys are separated by their teacher who ended up asking two other teachers for help. The boys are quickly sanctioned, heaved into the Principal's office and given punishments for starting a fight. The bully is given a warning – typical really because he's large, big, a repeat and with a parent who has enough power in their name to sue the school if they choose to. However, Lip and Mickey – the typical South Side crap case they are – are removed of their rights to recess and are given fifteen quick successive whacks on the back of each of their hands with a ruler.

Death could hardly keep it in himself not to reap the hard faced Principal's soul when he brings forth a wooden ruler and promptly tells the boys to place their small hands in the tablet. The boys hesitate for a moment before placing them solidly against the wooden desk. It's clinical and quick, the way the man delivered punishment, but it does nothing to relieve the small weak choke inside Death's throat as he hears the boys yelp, squirm and teary promises they won't do it again. He had thought corporal punishment was over, having received plenty of backlash in the past for it to warrant an arrest to the practice. Evidently not, as he watches two innocent school boys cry as their small hands swell and turn red with every hard smack.

"That would teach you not to start another fight," the man hissed as he raised the ruler one last time, sending a large blow against each hand in four quick swipes, "we do not condone violence in this school!"

Liar.

* * *

Once the boys were situated enough to walk out of the Principal's Office, Lip nudges Mickey into the Nurse's Office instead of returning to their classroom.

"We'll get in trouble," Mickey mumbles despite the lack of enthusiasm to reenter hell in his voice. He's not looking forward to seeing the prick that got them their swollen hands, nor interact with said bitch of a teacher who seems to have taken it within herself to actively hate him for no real reason either. Still, he simply wants to sit and put his head down, maybe somehow will himself to disappear for a bit until it was safe to run back home. The throb of his hands is replaced with numbness now, despite the obvious edema that settled against his fingers, knuckles and wrists. The man was aiming to hit everything it seems, not to keen on just striking one place.

Lip, still teary eyed and shaking, simply holds his hands up and lets Mickey examine them. They're just as red, bruised and angrily swollen. "Need to ice 'em," he whispers hoarsely, "I dun think we can hold a pencil just yet." That argument is enough for Mickey to nod and follow the boy down the hallway. They push inside quietly in a small tip toe, not knowing whether or not they were even welcome to begin with. They're lucky this time, with a new School Nurse just fresh from graduating, who had enough heart to take one sad look at them, gasp, and usher them both into to ice their hands. She looked rightfully aghast at the situation, despite the hopelessness of their plight. She coaxes the story out of them using the lure of candy and the promise that she wouldn't tell. Except silently, she may or may not have taken discreet pictures of the bruises before smiling at them and offering them two beds that they may lie in for the rest of the day. Hm, maybe this one wasn't as trodden down and full of self pity for her plight that she had a heart after all? Maybe she will do the correct thing. Maybe.

That is when he spots it. It's a small, unassuming poster next to one of Asthma and another detailing Allergies deftly entitled – Erik Erikson's Theory of Psychosocial Development. It's not the best poster to explain it all but he gets the gist pretty quickly. Dude Erikson believes that a person goes through each critical stage of development each entitled to their focused need at that age. If a person passes, they're not so fucked up. If they fail, they're fucked up self is carried over to the next stage to fuck themselves over more and more until they die. A basic summary – give or take. It doesn't sound so very comforting as he goes through each stage, keeping one eye on Mickey as he does.

He doesn't particularly recall reading this Theory of Development in books. Okay, maybe he skipped around, particularly more interested in the physical aspects of development because of the treatment Mickey has received prior to his sentencing with Aunt Rande as a guardian. Not that the woman was neglectful or incapable of caring for them, but she could hardly earn a "Mother of the Year" award herself, being crippled enough with a disease that her own movement was limited at best. So, as he runs through each critical stage in his head, recalling Mickey's history as he goes he becomes decidedly more and more nervous and nauseous.

Stage one – Trust versus Mistrust – Infancy up to 1 and ½ years of age. A child learns the world is safe, learning to trust in their surroundings and loved ones. A child learns to hope, to learn a basic skill as new crises arise. Failure would lead to Mistrust – finding the world unsafe, heightening insecurities, generally feeling unsafe, and developing unhealthy attachment in the process. As he reads this, Death becomes even more ill at the thought, noting that stage was certainly crushed to small pieces by the terribly vicious barbaric Terry himself. He wasn't safe to ever be around, even a thought like that was apparent to an infant like Mickey who use to practically curl into his mother or brothers when the man approached. But...but...he thought, well, he thought that he wouldn't remember that horrid time in his life. He thought that because babies' brains were still developing, he wouldn't actually remember the abuse that he felt under the hands of Terry. He didn't think that shit would wreck him presently. Not like this anyway. What the fuck?! Where the fuck was this information when Mickey came out blue from the womb? Shouldn't they be discussing this shit to parents?!

Shaking, he traces a finger down to Stage Two. Okay, Okay, perhaps it wasn't all so bad.

Stage Two – Autonomy Verses Shame – One and Half to Three Years Old. FAIL.

Stage Three – Initiative Verses Guilt – Three Years old to Five Years Old. FAIL.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

* * *

Note: Hm, this is actually suppose to be longer but I think I'll stop it here for now because I have some minor plot twinks I need to work out.

So, yeah, what can I say? Mickey is a walking psych analysis just begging to be prodded. You could overly any sort of psych theory on him and explain most of his personality just in Season 1 if you choose. It gets so much more exciting once you see him grow though don't you think? Did I make a good summary of Erik Erickson's PsychoSocial Theory? Not at all – in fact I'm rusty in Psychanalysis to I'm not even sure if I explained that shit correctly. However, it's such a well known, well used theory that simply applying it to Mickey should be Child's Play if you take a note of the hints they place in Shameless. Hell, you could use it on any character of Shameless and explain why they're a fucked. Frank, I think, is a perfect character to look at. Fiona and Lip too because they're much more well ironed compared to the rest of the cast.

Uh...yeah. So, give me some questions if you guys have it? What do you think? Uhm, sorry if I may have been more clinical or medical in this chapter than usual. I have that background as a college major so uh... I can't help it. That's kind of how I always end up writing? Tell me if I have to slow it down a bit as it sometimes may detract from the story.

Anyway, thanks very much for reading, Troublesome_monkey_sama signing out.


	5. Year Six to Seven

Notes: Hello, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing in.

For a while there, I actually forgot this fanfic existed because I got caught up in the unfortunate loophole of work, home, and school. As such, I need to get back into the groove again and get a feel of the whole thing. Hopefully this doesn't come out too far away from what I was aiming for. Anyway, thank you for those who read, reviewed, and gave kudos. Cheers!

* * *

Chapter 5: Year six to seven

* * *

He isn't sure when Mandy decides to officially champion him the name 'Hana' but she starts calling him that one day when he just so happens to apparate into the dimly lit room of Mickey and her bedroom to check up on them. Mandy is settled securely under a wool blanket, leaning heavily against her older brother as he muttered listlessly in his sleep. He takes one moment to stare at the youngest of the Milkovich brood and wonder how long he has been gone for this time. Except he doesn't have time to linger much longer when Mandy chooses that exact moment to pop out from under the covers, pale face bright and alert as her wavy mane flies about her before settling softly on her dainty shoulders. Her azure eyes zero on him instantly, making him freeze in his tracks for a second before forcing himself to relax. He's forgotten sometimes that some children can easily see him. "Hana," she calls softly as she raises her right hand to beckon him closer, "come here Hana!"

He doesn't hesitate to edge closer, sliding further in until he is at her side, a dark siphoning shadow illuminating a darker shadow against their wool covers. Truthfully, most would have cowered at his presence, children ultimately crying out for their mothers and fathers about monsters coming to eat them. Except, on delightful moments like these when children like Mandy can see something else. "Pretty butterfly," Mandy gushes and giggles as he settles himself close, "Did you come to tell me a story?"

"I'm sorry Mandy," he answers back apologetically, "I don't think I have time today." He's been hearing a droning hum in his ears all day and it's been increasingly difficult to silence their call. He will have to reap the poor dying soul soon, only just delaying in order to visit his adopted brood for a moment as they were also in the area.

Mandy stays silent for a moment, bottom lip jutting out stubbornly as she clings hard on the covers around her and glares at him for a moment before pouting. "But -" she is cut off when Mickey haphazardly turns to her, right arm flying wildly to land on her little lap as he groans and shuffles in his sleep. The two froze for a moment, bated breath sucked in hard before carefully defrosting as Mickey settles. Mandy takes the time to rub on hand against Mickey's thin arms, Death noting quickly at the road burn and bruises that littered close to his elbow. Frowning, he hovers close, only to find the side of Mickey's face was a mixture of scratches and band aids. What the hell was this boy doing while he was away?

"Mickey's getting intah more fights in school," Mandy informs him dutifully as she pokes and caresses at her brother's arm, "I telled him it's stupid to punch the bigger kids."

"You told," he swiftly corrects before sighting, "what did he say?"

Mandy crinkles her noise at him, pouting once more, "He said me ta leaf him alone."

"Leave. Did you?"

"Yeah," Mandy said with a small hesitant shrug. She chose that moment to stare back directly at him as her expression turns sour. And once more, he was struck with the small childish sense of emphatic guilt that only youth could feel without the pretenses of reality creeping in. He could tell that she knew it was the wrong thing to do, but certainly she had no idea how to help her ailing older brother when he so carelessly pushed her away. And he was stupid to do so, she was saying, stupid boys thinking they're so tough. Stupid. He chuckled at her souring expression as he shifted closer to whisper in her ear.

"Mickey's not going to ask for your help Mandy, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't mind getting some."

"That's stupid."

"That's Mickey," he contends simply, shrugging back just as simply as she had.

"Mickey's your brother, yeah? Family?"

"...Yeah." She nods just as easily, staring at him hard with her blue blue blue eyes. "I'll help him," she whispers simply as she patted Mickey's arm gently. Grinning, he nodded fervently in return before wincing when the sudden onslaught of a howling banshee screeched in his left ear. He should go, someone was desperately calling.

"I should go."

"But you just gotted here!"

"I know, but I'm busy tonight. Worry not, I'll be back sooner or later, yes?"

"But! But! But the monsters!" she sputters pathetically, pale cheeks puffing slightly as she groans and pouts.

He chuckled as he turned to go, molding himself into the dark shadow of the corner of the room. "There are no monsters here," he whispered with a small wave, "At least not anymore."

* * *

He doesn't expect fate to run her course so easily that night, but it does. When he apparates a few blocks away, he literally brushes past Lady Fate herself, who was standing outside a dilapidated Grey home like a lone statue in the night.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he ventured to say, watching as she pursed her lips and crossed her arms in deep thought. Together, they took a moment to take in the house, alight from the inside and bustling with a conundrum of voices. They certainly where having a party in there and he was sure it would be crawling with alcohol and drugs. What home in the South Side of Chicago wasn't nowadays? Very few, far in between.

Muttering mostly to herself, Fate shrugged her multi-colored hair off her right shoulder and awarded him a pearly grin with a nonchalant shrug. "I was just in the neighborhood," she answered back.

"Don't lie to me."

"I never lie," she said with a small chuckle.

"You never say the complete truth either," he shot back just as easily before lumbering up the steps and sliding inside through the door just as easily. He could hear the hard buzz of the noise in his ears now, begging him to come collect. Wincing, he molded himself into the shadows to watch the atmosphere of the room warily. It was a haze and buzz of multiple people, drinking, smoking, snorting and shouting all at once. His eyes zeroed into the beaten burgundy couch in the center of the room, where four people where gathered collectively upon a table littered with a myriad of illegal quantities of booze, smokes, cocaine and food. Ah, what a party it was. Almost reminds him of the 60's. Almost.

And there, among all the gabble, was his target. It was a frail little old thing, nostrils rimmed with white powder and pupils dilated so dangerously he was sure she was too far gone to save. She lay against the sole armchair in the room, bundled in a brown tweed jacket with a gaping expression on her tired, wrinkled face. Poor thing, he muttered mostly to himself, dying among men who probably wouldn't realize she's suffered a heart attack of some sort until they pull from their own blurry haze of pleasure. She's shrieking in his ear now, a soft golden glow lighting upon her chest as it struggles to break free from the confides of her fleshy prison. He waves his fingers at her gently, cooing almost as he gently convinces her to shoot herself free and fly to him. He would have crept closer to help the poor struggling soul, had it not been for her fleshy companions who where swaying, jumping, and staggering about that he feared they might hallucinate and actually see him. He eyed the pug-faced, white male next to his fallen victim as he downed another bottle. That one, he was sure, had enough ability to probably see him and call upon the neighborhood on top of a soap box to implore of a spiritual cleanse. Now, talk about causing a riot.

"Come now darling, come to me," he whispered just loud enough for the soul to finally rise and pound itself away before floating close to his outstretched palm. She drew close enough for him to cup into his hand, surveying the gold orb in his hand. "There you are Ginger, you did good my broken girl," he eased as she landed into his palm. She was rough, broken and blemished looking thing, barely exuding a golden light hue. Yet another soul, wrecked and broken by life. Still, he mused as he curled his fingers around it and finally collected it in his hand, it exuded enough light for him to understand she was of a sturdy stock. Sturdy, capable and cursed by hard circumstance. Very much like the people he has come to expect around these parts.

He readied himself to go, when in the corner of his eye he spots Fate slide silently upstairs. Normally, he wouldn't have given a damn at this point, finally finishing his job without her interference. However, curiosity took control of him and he followed just as silently until he was beside her, full of questions when he saw who she was observing. It's that one again. The one he failed to reap.

Clayton something-his-face. The red headed thing so close to death it would have been a godsend to reap him, had he been given the opportunity. He was in a huddle with three other figures in a small dinky bed pressed hard against the opposite wall. The girl, he recalled, with wild looking brunette hair was close to the edge, cuddling what looked like a newborn baby close to her chest. The baby had a sharp looking red hair, almost glowing with the light of the moon shining from the window, much like that unreaped one had. The boy himself was flanking the baby from the other side, back pressed against the dirty wall. The two phantoms watched for another minute more in silence until said boy shifted in his sleep, a reflex kick hitting the last figure buried under a blanket near the foot of the bed.

"Dammit Ian!" the figure hissed as his head popped up from the covers to swat listlessly at his snoozing brother's foot. From the small light of the room, Death could see his pronounced features. Very...sloth like. Very...

"Lip is such a good kid, you know?" Fate says with an air of gentle delight, "Very mature."

Ah yes. Mature. Lip. That Lip. Cocking an eyebrow, he shook his head. Small world, South Side was. He had to be that Lip. Mickey's classmate, seatmate Lip. From last year. From the beating. Lip who evidently was quite a smart – aleck, reasonably gifted had he learned to cease his tongue just a bit, and apparently the same young child who is the elder brother to Clayton-something-his-name-with-Red-hair. "You're shitting me, right?" he quipped silently, "this is how they're going to meet? Through his brother like some romantic comedy?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Come off it, the percentages of it happening are higher than none."

"Hm, if you believe that it can, then maybe it will."

"Never just yes and no with you," he sighed almost dramatically before turning away. He's had enough with this silent observing for one night. He wasn't all that keen on remeeting his failed excursion, dreading the day when the ballistic consequences of his failed reaping would undoubtedly affect his ward later in life. He prayed and hoped it would be a nice meeting, but fate is far too unpredictable with many factors and variances he could hardly keep up with. At this point, he just had to wait for the ticking time bomb to finally blow and be a witness to these two boys' fated meeting. If Mickey ends up dead, he noted silently to himself, Lady Fate better watch her back. The Hellion was coming.

"His name is Ian, if you wanted to know. And that's Fiona. And little Deborah. And of course, Philip."

He paused briefly to consider her words, "I didn't need to know."

"He's a special kid."

"And you're a crazed stalker."

"Takes one to know one."

Honestly, this woman. She makes him want to screw nails into his temple. "Why are you even watching him anyway? What's so special about him?"

Fate took a moment to consider, sagging her body to lean against the door frame in thought. "He's...," she starts, trying to find a word to describe her new favorite ward, "He's...special?"

He snorted, "No shit. Survived Death. Has a house over his head. Has druggies rioting downstairs. Possibly Irish. Looks like an alien leprechaun. Fucking special, he is."

"Ah...he's like a Joker Card you know? Like a wild card so to speak? And you know how I feel about people like that! They're just so...so...so special! So rare!"

"What?"

She waved his confusion away with another small smile as she turned to stare at the kid again, "And he's a good kid. I like him. You can't fault me for liking him," she shot back, daring him to challenge her statement, "Not when you do the exact same thing."

Okay. He's done. He can't fully find the effort to motivate himself into speaking more with her than he already has. Not when the things that comes out of her mouth are both pathetically idiotic sounding and potentially dangerous. Finally washing his hands with said conversation, he saunters down the hall without another word, his glare flashing as he melted into the shadows. "The difference between you and me," he hissed before he left, "is that I don't gamble on my wards. Watch yourself Fate."

"You too, Thantos. Don't work too hard!"

* * *

The next time he sees Mickey is almost a whole year later. The guilt is stabbing when he thinks about his lack of presence in his ward's life. Hell, he wasn't even sure if Mandy would remember her "Hana" but the Summer of 2001 was spent in far corners of every continent hearing calls from various populances and reaping souls left and right. His schedule only manages to calm near the first week of September when he remembers to pop in and check before Mickey and Mandy were bound to go to start school. He wonders idly what the hell his two munchkins were doing all summer given the sudden large ample time that suddenly dropped on their laps. He hoped, perhaps too much, that Mickey wouldn't follow his brothers into some half brazen, illegal scheme. Mandy, he was sure, might have spent the Summer with Aunt Rande learning her alphabets and baking Honey Cake.

What he stumbles upon, he can compare to walking into his simulated version of hell.

His first headache is actually a frontal panic attack bought upon the realization that the bedroom that had been occupied by the youngest of the Milkovich brood had been emptied and barren. The small bed his two munchkins had always snuggled in was stripped of its sheets looking cold and empty. He circled the room in a small panic, realizing quickly that their items were not strewn about either. No clothes in the cabinets. No toys on the floor. No drawings tacked on the walls. No Mickey. No Mandy. And no clue where they may be.

"What the fuck?" he muttered out, sauntering away from the bedroom and trampling downstairs as though he would have taken Rande by the neck and shook her for information. Of course he couldn't, physically speaking though he was not above doing so. But, he isn't even given that chance when he sees that the house is practically deserted, as though it had been raided and then meticulously cleaned by Cinderella's little mice and bird friends. It leaves him seething, that bubble of worry just humming in his gut when he molds himself into the shadows and focuses.

He searches for Mickey's sound, that little sigh and groan that is so distinctly Mickey that he would have dropped everything in the world to answer it. Except, he isn't calling. And Mandy isn't either, not with her sing song call. Well, they're both alive. How comforting. And so he pauses and thinks, wondering where two Milkovich children could be with their hypothetical, crippled Aunt. He draws to a blank, simply because Rande is akin to a spinster and barely leaves the home, so where would she even bother storing two rambunctious children?

So he goes to the only place he knows Milkovich skulk. The Horror House. Thy name is Milkovich. He's hopeful they won't be there, once more imprisoned in such a dank dreary place and perhaps in some meadow looking gay, posh adoptee parents' home where they were smothered with love. Unfortunately, it leads him to his next headache.

He does find them in the Milkovich House of Horrors, looking much like ragged, abused little puppies. Mandy is dirty looking, for the first time in her little life, with her beautiful Raven hair twisted and puffed into knotted twists atop her head. Her arms and legs are covered in little scabs, as though someone had personally picked at her skin one by one until it bled. Her clothes (a large Tshirt he was certain was Iggy's at one point) dwarfed her frame, pooling around her ankles. There is mucus staining down her mouth and chin, coupled with leaky, watery red eyes and blushing, cracked cheeks. She is pressed hard against one corner of the room, wide eyed and shocked, cuddling her little stuffed Rabbit against her for dear life.

And in the center of the room, like a fucking beacon of all things that would make his nonexistent heart palpitate and eventually decay, was Terry motherfucking Milkovich. He was just as he had seen him last, bull – like, red faced, heaving, and rabid. When he spotted Mickey, his precious punk-faced little brat Mickey, standing just behind a shaking Iggy, he paled. Mickey looked defiant, his expressive eyebrows ruffled and crossed making him look like a disgruntled dwarf. His left cheek is pressed against Iggy's back, one arm holding tight on Iggy's arm as though he was his anchor. Iggy, the poor dear, was a shaking leaf as he stood against his father with one gentle hand curled around Mickey's little fist and the other aloft as if it meant to block or perhaps swat Terry away. Not that it would help much, with Terry still a good foot or so taller than Iggy who was only in the midst of his pre-teens.

"He can't hold a gun Dad," Iggy said, his voice cracking and whining pathetically. Oh the woes of puberty are hitting him hard, "He's too young! He'll blow his head off!"

And before he could even begin to cross the room, in the silent hope that he could at least gain Mandy's attention to steer her brother from Terry's range, Terry had backhanded Iggy against the side of his face using the grip of a Revolver he had tucked into his hip. His hits were relentless, efficient and surprisingly quick as he pistol whipped the boy several more times until Iggy was forced to stumble backwards before sinking into his knees. "Then he ain't no fucking Milkovich!" Terry roared, "DO. YOU. HEAR. ME!?" Each roar rewarded Iggy with another pained blow until the boy finally broke into a disheartened sob on the ground.

Mickey had crumpled next to him, almost cradling his elder brother as he too sobbed, pressing his chubby cheek against Iggy's shoulder and shuddering as he surveyed the blossoming bruises and crimson liquid leak from Iggy's wounds and orifices. "I'll do it!" he cried bitterly, swatting Terry's hovering hand away from Iggy's face, "I'll do it!"

Aghast, he watched as Terry pulled a the little boy to his feet with a sneer, dragging towards the backdoor shouting profanities in his wake. Mickey stumbled along with him, flinching when Terry deposited the same gun he had used to demolish Iggy's face into his grubby little hand. Sniffling, he tried his best to wipe the warm blood off with his dinky grey Tshirt, before forlornly following behind his father and sparing his other siblings a glance.

"Little shits just had to be so fucking stupid to get caught and thrown in Juvie!" Terry roared as he crossed the threshold to gain a beer from the fridge, "Fucking Joey and that retard couldn't even steal a gram of coke without getting their shit yanked from the Popo! Who the fuck's that goddamn stupid?! Huh?!" He turned wildly towards Mickey with a half-baked snarl, "But not you boy! Ronnie's been telling me you got some brain like his old man!"

Mickey stayed silent where he stood, quivering hands curled tight as he held on the Revolver in his grip. He barely managed a nod before Terry was off again, looking more amused than ever as he ushered the boy outside, "You just need a little trainin' boy. A little training and you won't get caught. Gotta learn how to shoot a gun first!" And with that, he pushed Mickey outside with the intent of teaching him some freelanced target practice.

It left Death in a maelstrom of confusion and wrath. Because, what the fucking fuck?! How the hell is Terry here? Where the hell is Rande?! How are the children even back here?! Who the fuck let that fucker get a gun?! Why the fuck is Joey and Colin suddenly in Juvie?! What the fucking hell did he miss when he was away?! He had turned to follow Mickey out back, but instinctively turned to observe the damage Terry left in his wake.

To be perfectly honest, he has seen many dead bodies who were far prettier to look at than the damage left on Iggy's face. His nose is skewed in an imperfect angle and his face is botched, purple, bleeding and so swollen it looked as though he was going through severe anaphylactic shock. He frowned when he hears it, Iggy's call. It's different than Mickey's or Mandy's whose call were soft and whispery. His was like a drum. A long, beating drum. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"...Iggy?" Mandy's voiced pierced through the silence, making him jump. He had forgotten she was there. Slowly, she crawled out of her hiding spot (if you can even call it that) and shuffled to her wheezing brother. Her stuffed Rabbit is abandoned behind her as she inched her way forward, gasping and sobbing as she went. "Iggy?" she called again, voice cracking and throat gulping down tears. "Iggy, yous alive?"

Iggy had only managed a groan, making Mandy's breath hitch before she buried herself against him, her little face pressed against his heaving chest. "Iggy! Iggy!" she muttered against the fabric of his shirt before curling her little hands over them to grab handfuls of the cloth, "needs...a doctor..."

"G...G-get off me, M..Mands...," Iggy groaned as he curled away from her into his left side, heaving and hacking as he turned. Mandy furiously shook his head in response, panicking once more when she spied Iggy's eyes shut close and his breathing thin into pants.

"No!" she screamed, "No! You needs a doctor! Iggy!" She pulled hard on his hand as she willed him to get up, her small frame doing little but shake Iggy's body and pool blood into the floor.

"F..fucking get off me! OFF!" he roared, a rough shove her direction until Mandy was pushed two feet away. She blinked in shock, a small hand pressed against her dainty shoulder where he had put pressure. It hurt, it actually really hurt.

"But...but!" she blubbered in response. "I can't...I can't! Iggy! I can't! We're... Mickey says we're family! Iggy!"

It was Iggy's response that finally made Death's heartbroken, dilapidated organ stutter into a stop. He had managed to grin, looking grotesque and bloody where he laid, he shot Mandy a backhanded look over his shoulder. "Th-there is no family here Mandy. You...you should run."

And oh, oh, the way Mandy's little face fell. The way her eyes widened and turned shiny with tears. The way her little hands crumpled into her lap, settling still as she grasped his words. The way her world is shaped and broken so callously by one of the few she loves and trusts fully with her heart. Oh, the way her soul, her beautiful untainted soul finally cracks. Her first true blemish. "But...," she bites her lip in response and then sobs.

It is only then when Death notices another specter. She hangs close to the bedroom door, a little sinew of pale skin and bones. Sandy stood there, like an emaciated statue watching the scene with such disinterest it actually scares him. He takes in her frame, all bony and disgustingly alive, he's surprised she can withstand her weight on those chicken legs. Her hair, a beautiful shiny mane, is stringy and pulled into a half-assed pony tail to accentuate the shadows of her weary face. She said not a word, watching as her child sobs and her adopted son writhe on the ground in pain. She watches as Mandy hiccups and moans, as though she is starved of air. She watches Iggy try to pull himself up from the ground, screaming in pain as he does so. She watches and watches, with wide glassy eyes before eventually turning away and disappearing into the shadow of her room. It was like she was a ghost. Except, he was a ghost. He is THE ghost. And he's not delusional.

"Sandy?!" he finally shouts, making a move forward to wrench that door open and shake the damn woman out of her haze filled mind. Because what the fuck?! What the fuck is she doing here?! Why the fuck is she just standing here?! Who gave her the bullshit idea to just think of standing here when her children are being abused left and right?! Sandy, what the actual fuck!?

"...H...Ha...H-hana?"

He froze from his deluge enough to turn to Mandy who is sitting there staring at him with wild, perplexed eyes. "Hana!" Mandy called again, sounding so helpless and upset all he wanted was to scoop her into his lap and cuddle her. Make her feel safe and warm. Make her feel loved once more. "Hana! Please!" she continued to beg, "Please help Iggy! Please!"

Oh. Mandy with her pure little soul. "Baby girl...," he began, "You know I can't-"

"Please!"

"Mandy, you know I can't -"

"For Fucks sake Mandy! Shut the fuck up with your goddamn make-believe imaginary friend -"

"Please!"

And then the inevitable happens. He is assaulted. He is assaulted so suddenly with a myriad of voices, screams, calls that he physically could no longer hear Iggy and Mandy's shouts. His head erupts, a piercing headache pressing down on him so suddenly it was like someone had physically struck him in the head with a sharp dagger. He feels his eyes dilate, ears and cheeks flush, and a rush of numbing sensation crawl from the base of his neck, to his jaw, down his arms, and through out his body to finish down his toes. "F..Tck...," he manages to say before he collapses to his knees as the wave of severe dysphoria that he feels wash through him. His mind tries vainly to calm him, to make sense of the neurosensory overload to act the least bit rationally. Except, except he can't because he feels it. It's the call. A big call. A shitload of voices groaning, moaning, shrieking in his ears. All of them beckoning.

Make the agony end.

Take the pain away.

Please help me.

Please.

Please.

Please.

"Hana, please!"

"I...I'm sorry baby girl, I need to go," he manages to say before he melts into the shadows just as quickly. His body feels like it's burning. The call. Too large. Too sudden. What happened?

"HANA!"

"I'm sorry."

* * *

The end happens. He finds himself in New York City, on a bright sunny day, watching the end blossom into an inferno of twisted metal, groaning infrastructure and fiery hell. So many calls. So little time.

He sighs.

* * *

Note: Uh...four things;

1) Why yes, Death did reap Aunt Ginger. The actual Aunt Ginger mentioned to die 12 years ago? I'm iffy on the dates, but I tried my best to fit in around the ages where it seemed like she would have died.

2) Yes, I did reverence the 9/11 terrorist bombing. I wasn't going to but because I am roughly the same age of Mickey, I ended up including it when he reached the age of 7 when the attacks happened.

3) I like the word Fuck. Mostly because I suck at cursing and Fuck is mostly the only words I know. Please excuse my non-existent knowledge of a True Chicago Accent. I had no idea how to mold each character's sentence structure because I'm from Canada. So...

4) Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed and please feel free to Review. I love getting criticisms. Thank you!


	6. Year Eight to Nine

Note:

Hello, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing in!

Well, my friend (the one that often nag me to keep writing – bless them) pretty much gave me a shit show about how everything went haywire during the last chapter. Uhm yes, I completely meant for everything to turn into a shit show from the get go, you know? Everything will take a turn for the worse eventually because it is important for me to show that Death literally has no control here. He is a spectator of sorts. Take him like a really inept guardian angel. That's as good as I can really call him.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading and enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 6: Year Eight to Nine

* * *

Death has seen many things in his Millennium of Existence. He likes to think that Humans, the organic phenomenons that shape the world, couldn't possibly do something anymore that would phase him. He has seen them in warfare at their primitive existence, at their dawn, at their renaissance, at their resurgence, and unfortunately at their canonization to the bitter reality of today's existence. He is no longer phased with warfare and it's modicum of death by, killed in, and -his personal favorite – missing in. Humans are funny that way, he always mused, arguing amongst themselves as though they had all the time in the world to do so. They argue so much, he gathered by the centuries, they find new, fascinating, "humane" (that one he laughs at because it's just ridiculous) ways to argue and kill themselves. But of course, humans – unlike their other fellow organic beings – lack bodily defenses and make up toys in order to reach their tasks. Humans love their toys. At first, it had been sharp sticks. And then there was metal. And then there was gunpowder. And then there was atomic fusion. Humans love their toys. A little too much, he thinks sometimes, especially when they unleash it into the populaces and make his job all the more complicated.

The terrorist attack in New York City leaves him with little time to make real decisions whether he should reap or not. He ends up doing what he has done for many centuries when fatalities are far to numerous for him to reap individually. While he liked to reap them individually because he firmly believed each soul had every right to a justified reaping, time was of the essence and wandering souls was not too be left in their own for far too long. And so he sits, just at the base of the twisted structure, covered in soot, debris, ash, and sadness and calls out gently to those souls who are willing to listen. They're confused. They don't understand what has happened. They didn't expect to die. It's turned into a riot.

But he is gentle, because he is Death. He pushes and prods, coos at them to come in for comfort. Death, after all, is only the beginning. The end of something. The beginning of another. They ask him what is the beginning. He acts bashful and says they have to find out by themselves. Why he doesn't have a clue, he's merely the collector after all. They concede enough for him collect them to start their journey and he is satisfied with the exchange. Of course, he knows where their going – don't suddenly think he's ignorant of his own nature – but he won't ever say. Humans might have some imaginary aneurysm had their beliefs been shattered in some way. Let them believe, let them think, let them be. Humans, after all, are very fickle pitiful things.

It takes him a whole year and a half to do the job correctly, not because it's a large job really (he's reaped much worse) but because people die everyday. He is pulled in different directions, to and fro all the time. There's even stubborn souls he physically has to wrangle to reap. And there are those who eludes him because they refuse to accept their death. And that's all fine, he'll catch them eventually.

But still, it takes him a whole year and half to realize he finally has room to breath. And it takes him even more to realize, he hasn't visited his favorite brood at all. In fact, he hasn't allowed himself to even think of them while he was busy. In doing so, he has a whole year and half unaccounted for. A whole year and a half since the shit show he's left. A whole year and a half left in the hands of another type of monster.

It takes a lot to phase Death, but the sudden realization that it has been that long since he's last seen the Milkovich brood leaves him just a bit breathless.

* * *

He doesn't recognize the house the moment he steps in front of it. Something has changed. It looks just a bit cleaner, with shrubbery sheared away and garbage deposited in their correct bins. It looks the same, the same brick outlining peppered with blackening ash and aging decay. The same roll of the train track just racketeering outside. The same numbers, 1955, pressed against the wooden backdrop of the heavy door. The same bullet wounds. The same smell. And yet...

It's too silent. Too dominating. The quiet calm in the inevitable storm.

He doesn't expect to see Mandy first when he filters into the room ominously. She is alone, unsurprisingly so, looking out of the large bay window into the street outside. She's grown, he realizes with a drop of his heavy heart, grown so much that he can't help but keep staring at her. He last sees her when she is just about five years old, looking cherubic and adorable. This Mandy, this seven year old Mandy, looks reshapen. She is taller, stretched a bit that her baby fat seemed to have been burned away to reveal higher cheekbones and a prominent jaw. Previously, her hair had been shoulder length but now it falls close to her petite waist looking dark, straight and fizzed at the ends. She is decked in large white shirt that dwarfed her pale frame but it seemed to accentuate her expressive icy eyes. Mandy always had such glorious colored eyes, much like her brother.

Beside her crossed feet is her stuffed Rabbit, looking mangled and dirty like she had been forced to use it as a cleaning rag. She's fingering the little bow wrapped around it's neck in deep thought before finally sighing as she turned away from the window. Oh look at her, look at how much she's grown. How much she's changed. She's still beautiful, his pale dark-haired princess.

He feels the indelible need to apologize to her immediately creep into his throat. The last time he saw her she had been pleading him to help and he did nothing of the sort. In fact, he ran away. He's not sure how she would react to his presence now. She might even completely shun him due to his betrayal but he owes her enough to at least apologize for turning away. He owes her that much.

So he steps away from the safety of the shadows, clears his throat and calls out to her, "Mandy?"

He's not quite sure what he was expecting. Perhaps deep within himself he expected Mandy to launch at him in rage, a missile of heavy fists, screeches and justified disappointment. Perhaps he expects Mandy to sneer at him from where she stands, her jaw set tight, lips pulled thin, and eyes piercing his figure like dirt beneath her feet. And he wouldn't blame her. Of course not because children are little little leeches. They remember, oddly so, and while they may easily forgive, they tuck it in the back of their minds and let it corrode until it comes out in some misshapen way. But perhaps he expects too much because Mandy does the exact opposite. Hell, she doesn't react to him at all.

"Mandy?" he tries again, calling louder now.

Still Mandy doesn't respond to him, carefully pulling her stuffed Rabbit against her chest in deep thought. She looked almost perturbed in her silence, fidgeting slightly in her perch before turning her head to the side to hear the soft ticking of the clock hanged near the living room archway. She eyes it almost irritated, pursing her lips before turning to the entrance. It's obvious she's expecting someone. Mickey perhaps?

"Mandy?" he calls one more time as he crosses the threshold to her, finally fully revealing his presence to her. Normally, before, she would zero on him completely. However this time, she makes no clue that she would know of his presence. Just like everyone else. Nodding to himself solemnly, he crouches down to his knee to face her. It's sad. He's sad but it wasn't like he wasn't expecting it. He's always expecting it. "You don't see me anymore, do you?" he whispers softly, cursing himself when he actually hears his sadness seep into his voice for a moment. When she doesn't answer he merely nods to himself and sighs. He had hoped, maybe too much, that he would have more time with her. While Mickey had been his favorite (though god knows why, he wonders sometime) but he had a developed relationship with Mandy that was different. That was surprisingly refreshing because she could answer back. Because she sees him. Well, she use to see him.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes just the same, "I'm sorry for failing you. Mandy...I'm...I...I'm sorry I wasn't there when you need me." He takes a moment to pick at his words, watching Mandy's facial expressions. She doesn't betray anything, unflinching and uncaring almost. It was like speaking to a deaf person. It makes him want to curl away for a moment to regroup. He doesn't like feeling the overwhelming sadness that feels because it's ridiculous. He feels lonely and Death isn't lonely. He has no time to be lonely. "I'm sorry," he repeats again mostly to make himself feel better, "Hana is so sorry he couldn't help."

The bang of the door bursting open makes both of the jump. Physically he straightens, fixing his skewed facade easily into practiced professionalism. Beside him, Mandy physically curls into herself, watching the door with wide petrified eyes. She's suddenly much paler, everything hardened and taut like she is readying herself to run. Quietly, they both watch who stumbles in. He's half expecting Terry, that brute to lumber in like the alpha nut he tries to make himself to be.

Except it's not. It's an unfamiliar man. A rough looking man, all beard, red faced, mud eyed and smirking. What the hell? Who the hell is this now? He doesn't say much but steps in nonchalantly only to be followed by Sandy herself. Except it's not Sandy. Not the one that he remembers anyway. The Sandy he remembers is a skinny thing, lithe, gentle faced and rather elegant in her diamond-in-the-rough sort of way. This woman is none of that. Her hair is shredded short, barely catching her shoulders. It's dyed blonde for some reason, something that does little to accentuate her face. And her face, the fuck did she do to her face? He remembers Sandy to be blessed with pretty skin, freckled a bit, pale and with beautiful looking laugh lines. Now, now she painted it with cheap cosmetics – blue eyeshadow, thick mascara and eyeliner and cheap looking red lips – that makes her look older than she is. The way she dresses even makes him more confused. It's a short black dress, barely covering her breasts and ass. It is all finished with sharp looking stilettos that could be used as a weapon. All in all, Sandy's look is not something he ever expects her to put on.

"Sandy?!" he exclaims for his spot, inching closer just to look at her. She doesn't look happy. She looks tired, and beaten, and not very healthy. And dear god, there's that sense of broken spirit in her that he had glanced at that very day and it permeates through like a vibrating aura. It's melancholic. Visibly, she shivers as a cold breeze follows behind her before being tugged hard on the arm by the same rough looking man whose leering gaze is grazing about her.

"You got rubber don'tcha?" the rough man asks as he pulls her along to the direction of the bedroom as though he was more than a bit familiar with the house layout. Sandy merely nods before locking eyes with Mandy and looking hard at the wooden floor boards below. The man snorts in response, "Course yah do."

And just like that the fumbling pair disappears into one of the opened bedrooms and locks the door leaving the shocked pair alone once more. Death keeps himself still, trying his best to piece things together without coming off as assuming. So Sandy plus slutty clothes plus cheap make up plus man asking for a rubber is...what it is. His mind wants to say prostitution, hooker, the oldest living profession in the world but he has half his mind to think otherwise. Because Sandy never seemed to have stooped that low even when it was hard to make ends meet. Maybe this is Sandy dumping that lumbering racist homophobic idiot Terry and settling for another lumbering fool. Maybe she's fed up with that dumbass and went off to go find another boyfriend on the side. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

"It's okay Hana," Mandy surprises him by speaking for the first time. Her voice sounds the same, just rougher and full of worry, "Mama has a lot of men who visit her but they don't really hurt her. Not really." She lifts her stuffed Rabbit to face her for a moment as though she was speaking to it before adding, "They can be kinda rough though..."

Oh well. Break all of his assumptions by shitting on them why don't you?

"That guy, he doesn't touch me either. Not like the others."

And that, that makes his heart drop into his stomach. The words 'touch me' has nothing but bad connotations to it considering Mandy's own age and that of men she mentions. It makes his insides twist for a moment, making the bile flow up his esophagus and decidedly makes him nauseous enough to vomit. "What?" he hisses in anger.

"It's okay Hana, I'm okay," she whispers to herself nudging at her stuffed Rabbit and cuddling it close, "I'm okay."

And he wants to scream. The resignation on a young girls voice, his young girl's voice, makes him want to take a baton and take a wack at every leering man that had half a mind to pull that shit under his nose. He wants to smack her older brother's about because they promised they would keep her safe. He wants to shake Sandy until she's in the depths of another grand mal seizure because it's obvious she's lost her damn mind. And most importantly, he wants to curl around Mandy and keep her in a protective bubble. But he cannot. He knows he cannot. Death knows his limitations.

* * *

So drops into the his knees and resists the urge to cup her little face into his palms to coo at her like he does when he is harvesting hurting souls. "I'm sorry," he says finally allowing his voice to break just for a moment, "Oh god, I'm so sorry Mandy. I'm so sorry. Hana's sorry. Hana's...I...you don't...you don't deserve that. You don't deserve any of that. I'm sorry. Oh god, I'm sorry."

Mandy is not okay. Sandy is not okay. Death isn't okay with it either.

Death is on a mission. It's a stupid mission, the back of his mind reminds him. It's stupid and a waste of precious time. But he feels the burn of pure unadulterated anger burn through his spine and there is an unquenchable urge to reap the stupid bastards whoever the hell they are. In worse than that, he has the implicit urge to gather the Milkovich Boys into a line and smack them all in the head back and forth until their noggins clunk together. Perhaps then, they may remember the promises they made each other. To protect each other. To have each others' back. To help each other. Because they're family. Because all they have is each other. Because for some fucking reason, suddenly that shit is forgotten and they left their most vulnerable – the youngest one one, the feminine one, the innocent one – be tainted like so.

That is simply unacceptable.

So he hunts, like a predator through the streets, seeking the Milkovich Brothers wherever the fuck they may be. He half hopes one of them gets shanked enough that it would trigger their call and send a homing beacon for the Hellion to seek and clobber as he ravages on.

He finds them in the worst possible moment.

Hell he's not even sure what the fuck was happening. But it is some sort of fucked up shit. There is Terry, Elitist Racist Homophobic King of Fools, holding two steel batons in his meaty arms like a double sword. A cigarette is hanging off his sneer lips as he surveys the damage that is going on around him. He breathes out smoke through is nostrils like a raging bull, pacing to and fro as he makes grunts and kicks about. "Yeah fuckin' wreck that shit!" he calls.

And there is the rest of the Milkovich Brood, creating some form of uniformed havoc. They are armed with their own steel batons, Milkovich hastily signed against the grey metal, and swinging hard on their surroundings like a battalion. There is Joey, all teenaged up, gangly, acne ridden and buffed out, hoarsely yelling as he cuts through and smacks hard on the store front window willing for it to break. There is Colin, looking just as beefed and equally intimidating as he buffers hard on a cash register as he tries to pry it open. There is Iggy, a scar against his chin, acne on his forehead, at the beginnings of of a mustache, kicking hard against grocery shelves. And then – my god he feels his heart palpitate – there is Mickey (his sweet, punky little snot-nosed Mickey) hitting his baton hard against the glass of the freezer doors storing cooled drinks. He watches aghast as Mickey takes one last heaving hit, watching the glass door crack and fall before deftly reaching in to grab a Gatorade. He uses his incisors to twist it open, pop the cap out of his mouth and takes a shot before letting out a truly chilling smile. Who the fuck was this kid?! He's obviously not Mickey. And that possibly couldn't be Iggy. And what the fuck happened to gentle Colin? And well...Joey. Well Joey, he sort of expected but...still. Still, what the fuck?!

"Fucking wreck this shit!" he hears Terry encourage from the outside, "Damn motherfucking Muslim Terrorists think they can fucking stay in our Country after the shit they did!? Fuckers think they could pull that shit and not get away with it?!"

"Hell no!" Joey hisses as he takes aim to break the glass window pane adjacent to him.

"Goddamn fucking pieces of shit think we want their Islamic bombing ass in America!?"

"FUCK NO!" comes Colin and Iggy's holler as they throw their batons to the floor and start kicking the merchandise to the ground. Death flinches and takes a heavy step back. These boys. These boys aren't his boys.

"Fucking teach them a lesson!" Terry goads as he finally spits his cigarette to the ground, stomps on it and grins, "Aye, fucking bag that shit up!" He gestures to the beer cases shoved near the back, making Iggy and Mickey starting their pickings, loading their spoils into the back of a waiting Pick up Truck parked just outside the convenience store. The two boys give each other two pointed looks before shrugging and picking through whatever they could grab, shoving them into plastic bags and throwing them into the back of the Truck. Chips, Candy, Razors, Condoms, whatever they could grab is thrown about until there is enough to fill about seven plastic bags. The boys are whispering to themselves, looking in between grinning and gritty, a type of expression he couldn't explain. As Terry goads them on, it was like they turn into a frenzy of busy bees. Every bark makes them squirm, every yell makes them work harder.

And he could see it. The desperation on their faces. It is a competition against each other. And it confuses the hell out of him. But it's so clearly in their face. Look, see, I'm doing it. Look, see, I did what you said. Look, see, Dad, look. Look, look, look. Look at me. Look at what I'm doing. All for you. All for you. Look. Look. Look. Don't look at him. Look at me, Dad, be fucking proud of me. It makes him want to weep. Because these boys, something happened to these boys that changed them. Because these boys, they're desperate for attention. So thirsty for approval by the Alpha Male piece of shit that they act without hesitance. What the fuck has Terry done to mind control his children?!

And suddenly they stop. The chaos stops. Micky and Iggy straighten from where they are, looking just beyond their father's turned back. Joey and Colin regroup, like two buffing statues near the broken window panes, batons to their side. They all have an unreadable expression on their face.

"Wh-what the hell...what the hell is this?!" a shaky feminine voice calls from a few feet away. So Death turns, one eye on Terry as the grin on his face turns fucking manic with delight. There, standing near the edge of the road is a young couple. The lady, garbed with a hijab on her head, a leather black purse on her shoulder and a gun aloft on her hand, pointed straight at Terry's back. She's little. My god she's little. But the determination and anger on her face is palpable, making her pale face glow red. She scrunches her nose for a moment before setting her jaw firm and growls out, "What the hell are you doing Milkovich?!"

"Linda," the man beside her warns. He clearly is a Person of Color, black hair wavy, a five o'clock shadow, wide terrified eyes, and a stocky shaking frame. Ah, this must be the man Terry is spewing Hell on Earth about. The Muslim Man with his properly pretty White Muslim wife. Interesting. "Don't." He warily eyes the gun in her hands before sweeping to the Milkovich brood in question.

"Should listen to your terrorist husband, traitor," Terry sneers easily. He turns fully and grins at her, with a spiteful gleam. "Not a good idea...Linda."

"You wrecked my store!" she hisses back looking even more contrite that her husband physically reaches to take hold of her shoulder as if to draw her back.

"Linda!"

"I'm fucking calling the police!" she growls, smacking her husband's hand away from her before smacking him with her free hand again. "Kash! Fucking call! Call!"

With that Terry laughs and actually steps forward to take a sharp blow at her. It misses her by a few feet but it is enough to make the couple jump back. Her husband's quick reflexes are enough to make him pull his wife by the shoulders a few good feet away to avoid being hit. It was a reflex, the way the altercation happens, with Linda suddenly pale faced and shivering when her hand pulls through the barrel of the gun in her hand, forcing the poorly aimed bullet to ricochet a few inches to Terry's feet. The shot is enough to garner a few minutes of silence, the couple panting and shaken. All the while, Terry stands looking more amused before letting out a chuckle.

"Fuckin' traitor can't even pull a shot," he laughs, "Goddamn pathetic!" And with that he walks away, as though he was washing his hands of the place now that he seemed to have gained some sort of upper hand of some sort as he watches the couple cower. "Just try to call the damn police! Fuckers' got a mole on the inside! I'll trace your fucking ass to Baghdad and back if you pull your shit!" he calls as he heaves into the truck and starts the ignition. He does a lazy wave and his children all scramble to the back, lumbering over their stolen goods. Their pointed expressions do not betray their emotions, all except for the two youngest who fidget where they sit. Iggy is biting his lip silently, his hand clenching the baton against himself before wearily eyeing the couple and then forcing himself to look away. He looked...almost ashamed.

And there it is. There is the boys he remembers. Like a veil, it was like the barrier is allowed to break for a slight moment. Joey's jaw sets hard and Colin turns away to observe the mess they had made before fidgeting and shaking his head, but both say nothing. He understands. They dare not say a thing. Not when their Father is on his own rampaging tirade to scare the poor victimized couple. They're smart enough not to say a thing lest they risk their own heads. No one was pulling a Benedict Arnold now. No way.

It is Mickey's face that looks the most apologetic. He's actively shuffling in his spot, biting his lip and looking around wild-eyed. It's like he's half expecting the police to actually show, for them to come in guns raised, a barrage of bullets all fantastic like in the action movies. He looks down at the stolen goods guiltily and pushes one of the bags away with his feet. It feels dirty. Stealing like this. Terrorizing like this. It feels dirty. And he knows it's wrong. It's all written on his face. But...well...

As the Pick Up lurches forward, it is then when Micky whirls to stare right at the cowering couple. The man has an arm looped around the woman's waist looking like he could cry at the moment. The lady in question, shaking and quaking before shoving him off and straightening herself. She locks eyes with Mickey for that moment, brown eyes locking into blue. She is visibly shaken but angry, accusation searing hard in her glare. Fuck you. Fuck you for doing this to us. For hating us over nothing. Fuck you for the hate we don't deserve.

And Mickey flinches. He flinches hard at her glare before standing up slightly to match her gaze. "I'm sorry," he mouths silently. "I'm fucking sorry."

Death isn't sure if he is proud. He should. But, as the Pick Up rolls away into the road to leave the couple with their devastation, he doesn't feel proud. As he watches Linda take a sharp breath, fists clenching hard and lower lip shaking, he doesn't feel anything close to proud. He watches her take in her business, her life, her source of income left in shambles and tries to even her breathes. He watches as the husband listlessly hovers close, mouth opening and closing as he reaches for what to say. He doesn't feel proud. It's not enough, what Mickey did. Apologies are not enough. He feels nauseous. He feels disappointment. He feels...he's not proud. As Linda finally folds, angry tears gathering around her eyes, he feels nothing but pity. Kash shuffles beside her, holds her close with one arm and presses his cheek against the side of her head.

"Let's clean up," he whispers hoarsely before clearing his throat.

"...Yeah."

Death shakes his head and turns away. Humans. Humans are truly pitiful creatures.

* * *

Death doesn't bother going back to check on his brood after that. He lingers, a little bit to watch the couple rummage through their store. He watches as Linda screeches, throws a broken piece of shelving to the ground in the frustration as she raves. He watches Kash – his name is Kash – steady her before quietly try cleaning up. They're tense and silent and emotional. They don't deserve this. No one deserve this. This blinding hate for something out of their control. All because of their beliefs? Of their looks? He snorts. Humans are stupid. Terry is stupid. Terry is not the only asshole in South Side.

He sees it. He sees the murmuring crowd that gathers to look at the devastation. He senses their thoughts, their feelings. Look at that shit. Fucking sucks. But they do not help, because no one wants to be seen helping the ones the Milkoviches labeled "Terrorists." People aren't playing with the Devil here. And that is pitiful. It is alarming. It is crowd mentality at it's finest.

As he watches, he feels that certain bubbling anger in his gut that burns harder than his revelation earlier that day. It is surprising, how hot his irritation is for his brood. Because it's his brood. It's his pseudo family to watch. And they dare do this. He doesn't know how they could have it within themselves to actually do it. He doesn't know how they could suddenly turn so heartless, so hateful, so vengeful. All of them? All of them?! How?! How does that shit happen?!

He doesn't get answers. Of course not. But he is rightfully peeved and not in the mood to simmer about it. His brood. The brood he's watched because he was so certain they were different. That they had something in themselves that made them so worth watching. So worth protecting. So worth sparing. What fucking fresh hell they are now. It bites. It bites at his pride, his integrity, and his trust. He doesn't want to call them his brood. Not anymore.

"Penny for your thoughts?" a smooth voice eases into his left ear. He stiffens for a moment before he feels Fate's hand rub hard at the clench of his shoulder muscles. He turns slightly to see her umber fingers work hard to press against his muscle before sighing into her touch. He lost his concentration. He didn't even hear her come up to him. He's getting soft.

"Fate," he greets listlessly, pouting at his sudden ineptitude. He's gone soft. Too cared too much. Well fuck him and his inability to not give a damn.

"You're in to deeeeeep," she singsongs into his ear as she giggles. Fucking bitch gotta rub in his face. Of fucking course.

* * *

Note: Long notes ahead. Forgive me.

1) This chapter was a bit emotionally draining for me. I felt like it was time to uphold the amoral fragility of the Milkovich Clan. My goal, in this chapter is basically to destroy the family unit. I spent a long while to develop it, especially the bonds between siblings for a good reason because it has hit me that Mickey is a loyal little thing, especially to people he considered family. However, it's rather obvious his opinion of family is misconstrued, justifiably so. Therefore it made sense to destroy the unit as much as I did simply because it would explain why Mickey had little regard to normal family values, but is loyal to family members. Because he remembers a time when they had his back. He remembers feeling loved. And man, does he latch into those who would spare him a little bit of love because he knows how easily that can be destroyed. How easily he can be thrown aside. The way people react most times, especially to relationships, are often rooted to the core of family dynamics after all. I hope that explanation helps.

2) Yes, I felt iffy about including Muslim Discrimination but in the end I felt like it is a reality everywhere that is more than plausible in even fiction. It's there. It happened. It will continue to happen because unfortunately there are people who are very much like Terry Milkovich. I'm writing from reality here. As a kid who lived just about 30 minutes away from New York when 9/11 happened, everything literally changed from the get go. After that day, people were afraid to go out anywhere. And even my own friends who practiced Islam, who looked Muslim, who were not "American" looking enough (myself included)– they were treated differently and not very well. The Truth is People were and continue to be affected by the action of others simply because people are ignorant enough and needed to point the blame at someone. Hate festers because of ignorance, false sense of superiority, misguided anger and intolerance of the truth and change. Now this was a decade ago, yet the parallels of our reality has not changed significantly. Death will continue to shake his head and weep.

P.S. I love Linda and remember her fondly. Her husband...not so much. He creeped me the hell out.

3) Uhm, read and enjoy? I dunno. Was it I too forward in this chapter? I always feel like I'm pushing way too much. Please tell me if I do, I'd like feedback because I literally touched upon real issues and it's giving me some anxiety for some reason.


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